


A Study In Forgiveness

by LadyGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angry John, Angst, Cuddles, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hacking, Implied Johnlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, MINOR WARNING for mentions of drug use, MINOR WARNING for mentions of war atrocities, Multi, Other, Umbrella, a tiny nod to bondlock, actual character development, casefic, haven't you ever wondered about the umbrella?, horrible nicknames, i love sherlock but seriously this fandom is too white, international politics, john just likes james bond you know how it is, mycroft fucks up, no really the umbrella is important, no this isn't bondlock, semantic networks, sherlock is a prick, spy shit, there might be porn later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGrey/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whereby the Holmes boys grapple with the consequences of their mistakes. </p><p>This is a fairly long case fic tinged with slowly developing johnlock and actual character growth and development. I decided to write it because I thought Mycroft needed a girlfriend, and I wanted to vomit forth some of my headcanon about who he is and what he does. So this is a story about Mycroft Holmes, told from the point of view of Sherlock and John.  It is a story about making mistakes and forgiving the people who make them.  And last but certainly not least, it is a cyberpunk-lite spy story, because that's how I roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft needs a favour. A big one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hamstermoon for britpicking this chapter!
> 
> For the sake of honesty: This fic has not been abandoned, but I am working on a D/s PWP epic at the moment, and have realized that it is better to FINISH a long work and then post it in installments, rather than start writing and leave everyone hanging as I did here, with my very first work posted on the archive. Live and learn and my most sincere apologies. I am going to leave up the chapters that I have so far, but what's going to happen with this story is that I am going to COMPLETELY FINISH IT before posting the rest. So it will be a while, but when I start posting again it will be regular until the end. If you like the story as it stands now, subscribe and one day magic will happen in your inbox and then keep happening ;)
> 
> Also, stay tuned to my channel for 50,000 words of absolute filth soooooooooon ;)

# Chapter 1: The Favour

Everything has been off since Sherlock's return from the dead, completely off. He'd been an idiot to hope that one black eye would wipe the slate clean. John is not well. His leg is still bothering him and it makes him angry and irritable. For the first time, Sherlock actually understands what it is like, because he himself has developed a nausea so unceasing that in the worst moments he actually considers dulling the sharpness of his mind with marijuana if only to chase away the feeling that he is going to vomit at any minute, though he never does. He knows it is all psychosomatic and he isn't actually ill, but he rages at himself for not having better control of his own mind. 

So when John laughs at a crime scene after Sherlock offers an accurate yet scathing description of Anderson's sexual technique or lack thereof, his stomach does flip flops and finally settles into something resembling normal. Sherlock resolves to do his utmost to be as cruel as possible to Anderson in the future. Really he hasn't even been trying all this time. It is just so good to hear John laugh again. Sherlock would do anything to laugh with John again. He risks a small smile in John's direction, and is rewarded with a genuine grin from his friend. Sally snickers. Anderson storms off. 

Sherlock decides to show off, hoping that he might also see the old glimmer of admiration in John's eyes, and perhaps John will tell him he is amazing. Three sentences. He will solve this crime for Lestrade in three sentences.

“Pull the number plate of this man's Porche, which you will find is missing, and get it out over the radio to see if your ANPR equipment can track it down. The thief is an idiot teenager from the neighborhood and will still be joyriding. Really, Lestrade, you didn't have anything better for me than a botched taking without consent?” Two sentences and a dig at Lestrade's intelligence. _Fantastic._

Lestrade gives the orders and levels his long suffering gaze on Sherlock. He sighs, the sigh that says he wants to defend his pride but realizes the futility. “Sherlock, there's no indication that this was a carjacking. I believe you, but you're going to have to take me through it.”

“Skidmarks outside on the road, surely you saw them? As for how I knew it was a Porsche, even you must have deduced that.” Sherlock reaches over the corpse, a rather pudgy bald executive who likely believed that his fondness for fast powerful cars made him more interesting and desirable, but it didn't, as evidenced by his single status even in the face of his obvious wealth. He picks up a copy of GT Porsche off the coffee table (which was also the accidental murder weapon) and tosses it at Lestrade, mindless of the fact that it is covered in blood and particulate matter. Lestrade dodges it gracefully and glares at Sherlock for being so careless with evidence. “You may not have thought to search the garage yet, but you will find the vehicle is missing. Also, time of death was sometime after 8pm, not before. The telly was on when I arrived, channel BBC 2. Top Gear is on at eight. I swear, Lestrade, I didn't think it possible for a human being to be more predictable than Anderson. In any case, he let the neighbour boy into his house because he was familiar, and likely caught him trying to swipe the keys, they tussled, and this poor chap fell against the coffee table, obviously. An accidental murder. How boring.” Sherlock sighs, legitimately disappointed. But he glances at John and sees the small smile that means Sherlock has just done something brilliant, and though John doesn't say anything, it is enough.

They catch a cab back to Baker Street and arrive just as Lestrade's text chimes on Sherlock's phone

_we found the car and the thief_

Sherlock smiles and shows John, who also smiles. Sherlock's stomach feels just fine at the moment.

They are at the door when the second text comes through.

_u were wrong though it was a neighbour GIRL_

Sherlock grits his teeth. Gender is irrelevant to the case, but he doesn't like being wrong. So he stops on the stair and punches in a reply.

_I was NOT wrong. Gender is irrelevant. There is no difference. -SH_

“Sherlock, what's wrong?” asks John.

“It was a girl,” mutters Sherlock.

“Ah,” says John, leaning patiently against the door while he waits for Sherlock to finish texting with Lestrade. 

_mate if u don't think theres a difference then you and i need to sit down with a vry large bottle of whiskey and have a vry uncomfortble chat_

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

_Sod off. -SH_

“Can we go inside now?” John asks.

“Yes, of course, after you,” replies Sherlock.

“I left my keys at the surgery, you told me it would only be a few minutes.”

“It took me less than five minutes to solve the case.”

“Yes, but it took you five minutes in Surrey, which is a bit out of the way.”

“I concede your point,” Sherlock says, still hoping for a smile.

He gets one. _Christmas!_ “You're being unusually gracious this evening. Please tell me you have your keys,” John says.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock pulls them out of his pocket and unlocks the door, gesturing for John to precede him into the flat. He wonders what he can do to keep John's spirits up for the rest of the evening so he doesn't retreat to his room as he has been doing every evening since Sherlock's return. Everything is off, and Sherlock is tired of it. Faking his death took a toll on him, and he needs this specific normal boring thing, though he would never admit it to anyone, especially not John. Perhaps tonight is moving them back in the right direction, or so Sherlock allows himself to hope as he follows John up the stairs.

John turns on the light in the sitting room but stops abruptly at the entrance, his posture transforming instantly from tired mate to Captain John Watson who is not to be trifled with, and Sherlock leaps up the remaining three stairs to peer into the sitting room.

Mycroft sits in John's chair, wearing a pair of cheap navy sweat clothes, though he is still holding that ridiculous umbrella across his knees, which are bouncing nervously in a very un-Mycroft like way. Something about Mycroft is off too, something beside the clothes, which Sherlock can not let go without a comment: “Is your tailor finally too slow to keep up with your expanding waistline, Mycroft? This new look is eminently more practical for you.”

Mycroft sighs, and that is normal. “Even I must suffer a disguise from time to time.”

“Who is that?” John asks quietly, nodding across the room to the couch.

Sherlock had missed it entirely, his laserlike focus entirely wasted on his brother. There is an unconscious woman on their couch, her head and most of her torso wrapped in bandages, the rest of her covered by only a hospital gown. A medical kit and a cooler are carefully stacked next to the couch.

“I have made a terrible mistake,” Mycroft says. Sherlock gapes at him. “I need a favour, the most important favour I have ever or will ever ask of either of you. Please. Take care of her for me.”

“Absolutely not!” Sherlock says, at the exact same moment John softly says “Okay.”

Sherlock rounds on him. “John! I know you are still angry at him, you, we, have every right to be. Why on earth would you agree to help him? Let him clean up his own mess. I want no part of it.”

John's eyes are grey and cool when he settles them on Sherlock, who is growing more agitated by the moment. This is not normal. Everything had been almost normal again. There is static in his head and Sherlock is missing something important, important but he can't grasp it. . . 

“How many times has he cleaned up one of your messes, Sherlock?” John asks softly.

“He hasn't done that for ages,” Sherlock insists. He crosses his arms and definitely does not pout.

Johns eyebrows go flat and his face goes still and oh god he is angry and the static is back and Sherlock's stomach turns into molten lava threatening to erupt out of his mouth. “Sherlock,” John says, voice still dangerously soft, “He helped you come back from the dead three bloody months ago.”

“Yes, but it was partially his fault in the first place,” Sherlock points out, still not pouting.

“We're helping him. You can go pout in your room if you don't like it. I'm sorry, but your usual pouting couch appears to be occupied.”

“I'm not. . .” Sherlock clacks his teeth together as he firmly shuts his mouth. He will not argue with John like this in front of Mycroft. Nobody can put him in his place quite like John, and John has been doing quite a lot of it recently, and it has been bothering Sherlock more than usual, and he does not want Mycroft to see. “Very well,” he says. He turns to Mycroft. “Explain.”

Mycroft stands. “Thank you John. I am in your debt. She is in a great deal of trouble, and it is my fault I'm afraid. I was forced to take some drastic measures to ensure her safety, including considerable reconstructive surgery. Her medical file is there,” he waves a limp wrist toward a file on the coffee table, “and she will need to be supervised as she recovers. Once she has, please destroy the file, John. Don't let her near the windows, and, this is very important,” Mycroft pauses and repeats himself, “This is _very important_ : Do not let her near a computer, or your phones, or anything more complicated than a wristwatch.”

Watches are actually delightfully complicated, Sherlock thinks. He can watch the mechanisms for hours at a time, marvelling at the intentional complexities some watchmakers design into the system, not for efficiency, but for art, because manipulating the properties of the minuscule gears and weights is a challenge and even watchmakers do not like being bored. Nobody ever really pays enough attention to the inside of their watch, he thinks. Sherlock does not wear a watch, because every time he tries he always ends up taking it apart and he has never actually managed to put one back together.

“What is her name?” asks John. _Boring._

“You can call her Melissa.” _Clearly not actually her name._

John nods toward the woman on the couch, “Tranquilisers, I assume?” _Why must you state the obvious, John?_

“It was safest,” Mycroft confirms.

One of the things he'd been missing suddenly dawns on Sherlock, and he laughs. “She doesn't have the first clue, does she?”

“No,” Mycroft says. His eyebrows knit together and his lower lip trembles. _Fascinating._

“What am I supposed to tell her when she wakes up?” John asks.

“Tell her. . .” Mycroft's voice cracks and he starts again, “Tell her I will be back in a few days to explain everything, and to be careful, and not to leave the flat. Please. Take care of her. She is. . .important.” 

“Important _how_?” Sherlock asks, even though he has already deduced the answer.

Mycroft knows what he wants, and gives it to him. “Important to me, Sherlock.”

“I had no idea you were capable of any such sentiment, brother mine.”

“Sherlock,” John says sharply, “Shut it.”

“But. . .”

“Shut it!”

John has the bit-not-good look on his face, and Sherlock studies it trying to figure out what he's missed this time.

“I must go,” Mycroft says. He presses a small paper into John's hand. “Contact me at this number, and only this number, if anything happens. I'll be back on Wednesday to sort this, if it is at all sortable.”

“And if it isn't?” John asks, his voice dripping with sympathy. _Disgusting._

“I don't know,” Mycroft says, closing his eyes and dropping his head for a moment before squaring his sloped shoulders and walking out of the flat.

John and Sherlock stand in silence for a moment as they both listen to Mycroft pad down the stairs and leave by the back door, rather than the front. There is no shiny black car waiting at the curb either. Unusual.

Sherlock finally turns a helpless confused face on John. “John, why?” he insists.

“Didn't you notice, you fool of a detective?”

“Notice what?”

“Your brother was crying.”

And suddenly Sherlock sees it in his memory, and he curses his brain for replacing the facts of the moment with his preconstructed image of his brother, always so blank and cordial, always so the same so consistent that he had seen what he expected and not what was there, and good lord had he suffered brain damage in the fall after all? He sighs. “Oh.”

John walks to the couch and sits down on the coffee table to take the womans pulse. Sherlock notices a scar on her wrist, not self-inflicted, an accidental burn of some kind. She is dark skinned, of African descent probably, though possibly Indian, but Sherlock can't tell because her face is entirely wrapped in bandages. John nods absently and picks up her file. He frowns, Doctor Watson now. Sherlock thinks that this evening has not been a complete waste, as he has seen his mate John and Captain John Watson and Doctor Watson all in the same evening and that's a treat because John is really delightfully multifaceted and complex without being even a bit messy and Sherlock appreciates that immensely and at least John has not gone to hide in his room.

But there is a woman in their sitting room, and she isn't even conscious and Sherlock already cannot stand her. He throws himself into Johns chair and lets his lanky arms drape over the sides, knocking something to the floor in the process. He looks.

Mycroft has left his umbrella.


	2. Get Out of My Chair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Normal is killing John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has now been britpicked by the lovely Hamstermoon. Hooray!

Everything has been too bloody normal since Sherlock's return. Sherlock has filled the fridge with body parts again. Sherlock has cluttered the kitchen with experiments. Sherlock plays the violin at all hours of the night and day. Sherlock pouts on the couch, or sits on it with his fingers steepled, nicotine patches on his arm, puzzling over a problem. Sherlock even managed to short out the microwave twice in the three months since he's been back. Sherlock has not changed a bit, and John can not stand it.

John can not stand the way tears spring into his eyes every time Sherlock walks into the room. He is not a man afraid to cry, but Sherlock is not his girlfriend to wrap his arms around John and croon soothing nothings in his ear while ruffling his hair. There is no utility in that kind of emotional display, and John is a very practical man, so he retreats to his room and cries into his pillow, feeling like a pathetic tosser every time. Sherlock is back, and as far as he is concerned there's no reason he and John cannot just pick up where they left off, running through the streets of London on a case, or bickering over housework and Tesco runs. 

John can hardly stand to purchase milk. He took his tea with only sugar the entire year Sherlock was dead. It took him four months to stop making two cups and crying into the second when he was done his first. Now he can't bring himself to make a second cup of tea for Sherlock. He wonders if Sherlock has noticed. Of course he has. Sherlock is brilliant.

John really is glad his best mate is alive. He feels a little guilty for punching Sherlock in his beautiful face when he walked in the door, fit as a fiddle, three months previous, but Sherlock had not even seemed to mind.

“Feel better?” Sherlock had asked with an honestly happy smile as he got gracefully to his feet.

“Getting there,” John had replied, not even angry just confused that his first reaction to an incredible surge of love had been actual violence.

But he couldn't move on, actually, so it was a lie. There is still a year long pit of bleak grey hell in his life, the year Sherlock was gone, and John cannot return from that back to normal without. . .something. He doesn't know what. Sherlock had explained everything, but it didn't make John feel better. He honestly doesn't know how to chase the bleakness away, but the normality of it all is killing him all over again.

So in a way, Mycroft brought him a gift, because whatever this new mess is, it certainly isn't normal. 

The woman's pulse is steady and slow, typical for someone safely sedated. John picks up the file off the table and starts to read through it, aware that his frown is growing deeper with each turn of a page. Bloody hell, Mycroft. It just wasn't safe to perform that many procedures in one go. Liposuction in multiple locations. Abdominoplasty. Facelift. Rhinoplasty. Blepharoplasty. Very small saline implants in the face, a procedure John has never heard of before. Where had Mycroft had this done? The file doesn't say. All the surgeries, apparently, took place two days ago. John inhales sharply. He wouldn't want to be her when she wakes up. Hopefully. . .yes, Mycroft has provided a generous supply of saline solution and intravenous and oral painkillers (morphine and oxycodone), zofran for nausea, as well as vitamins and a small supply of luvinox to prevent blood clots, having anticipated an extended convalescence. John wonders what she did to deserve this, if anything. He looks for a good place to hang a saline bag.

“Sherlock, have we got any nails or screws?”  
“What?” Sherlock is sitting in John's chair again. He's been doing that a lot lately, sleeping in it too.

“I need somewhere to hang the bag,” John lifts the bag to show Sherlock.

“Oh,” Sherlock is so tall he only has to half stand to pull the knife out of the mantle and toss it casually at the wall, where it embeds itself in the middle of the smiley face spray painted above the couch. 

John jumps. “Christ, Sherlock!”

Sherlock just grins at him and steeples his hands beneath his chin.

John growls but turns back to the wall. The bag actually does fit over the handle of the knife, so John carries on as if his flatmate isn't being his bloody normal infuriating self. The woman, _Melissa_ , John reminds himself, already has an IV catheter in her arm, so it is a simple matter to flush it with a syringe and hook it up to the bag. He adjusts the flow rate to a slow drip just to keep her hydrated. He checks her pulse again. It's fine. Still, John, as a doctor, is not comfortable leaving her alone after being so irresponsibly hacked up by whoever Mycroft hired to do these procedures. He'll sleep in the sitting room tonight.

John rubs a hand over his face, finding himself more exhausted than he expected to be. He glances over at Sherlock, who is perched on the edge of John's chair, staring into space. John walks over and looms over his flatmate. 

“Get out of my chair.”

Sherlock doesn't even look at him, just waves at his own chair. “Sit over there.”

“You sit over there. It's your bloody chair.”

Sherlock ignores him.

“Sherlock, I'm not going to ask you again. Get. Out. Of. My. Chair.”

The corner of Sherlock's lip turns up and he finally looks at John. The corners of his eyes crinkle with laughter that he doesn't voice. “No,” he says.

John rolls his eyes, and is out of patience. Although his tall, gangly flatmate has almost a foot on him, John swoops down and lifts him easily out of his chair, tossing him into his own. Sherlock's eyes widen as he flies briefly through the air, then close as he drops none to gently into the other chair with a strangled “umph!”

John drops into his own chair and arranges the Union Jack pillow behind his neck the way he likes it. He glares at Sherlock, daring him to say something.

Instead, Sherlock laughs. He laughs and keeps laughing, and John cannot help it. First he cracks a smile. Then he laughs too. Then he laughs harder, until they are both laughing together at the absurdity of THEM.

The normality of it feels like a knife to the face.


	3. Prick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a terrible nurse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has now been britpicked by the lovely Hamstermoon!

*BANG BANG BANG*

“Sherlock! Wake up!”

Sherlock leaps up, hopping on one foot to disentangle himself from his sheets, which have somehow fallen around his feet. He grabs the sword off his dresser and throws open the door.

John takes a big step back and holds up his hands. “Bloody Hell, Sherlock!”

“John.” Why was John banging on his door? “Problem?”

“No! No! Sherlock, put the sword down, you're scaring me.”

“I'm sure that's not true, you are very brave,” Sherlock says, but he tosses the sword on his bed. “What, then?”

“Why are you bleeding?” John asks, clearly trying to decide whether to wear his doctor face or his my-flatmate-is-a-bleeding-idiot face.

“What?” Sherlock needs coffee. He shoves past John and stalks into the sitting room, having almost managed to forget about the woman on the sofa. “Is she still here?” he complains.

“Well she didn't very well wander off in the night, did she?” John grabs his hand and Sherlocks pulse stutters. _Unexpected._ “Let me look at your arm.”

“My arm is fine. I need coffee.” he tries to continue his trajectory to the kitchen, but John drags him to his chair and shoves him into it. “John, really, I'm fine. The coffee. . .”

John grabs his other arm and yanks it in front of his face. Oh, that does hurt a bit. “ _This_ is your idea of fine?” Sherlock's arm is covered in an almost whimsical pattern of perforations, tiny dashes in concentric circles, interrupted every once in a while by bleeding scratches.

“Superficial lacerations. Nothing to be concerned about.” Sherlock tries to rise again for coffee, but John holds him in place with an arm across his chest. His breath catches and Sherlock is so very glad John isn't taking his pulse at the moment.

“Okay, yes, but, where did they come from?” John asks, finally having settled on his concerned doctor face.

Sherlock sighs. He won't get coffee until he explains. “Last night I was studying the injury patterns of various brands of razor wire.”

John's lips part and his eyes grow wide. “On yourself?”

“No! I have several test arms in my room. I must have fallen asleep on a coil of it.”

“You fell asleep on a coil of razor wire?” John settles his face to stillness, his I-am-patiently-listening-to-your-madness face. Lord how Sherlock has missed it!

Sherlock smiles. “Yes, John. This is going to take a very long time if you insist on repeating everything I say.”

“Right,” says John, “So there are arms in your bedroom?”

Sherlock sighs. “Yes.”

“Are they attached to, you know, people?”

“They were before Molly gave them to me.”

“So your bed, right now, is full of razor wire and dismembered arms?”

“No, I was working on the floor.”

“You fell asleep on the floor?”

“Ah! The genius finally makes a deduction! John, I NEED COFFEE,” he shouts in John's face.

“Sherlock, YOU NEED A TETANUS BOOSTER,” John shouts back.

Sherlock scoffs. “Tetanus is boring. I don't have tetanus. Let me up.”

John growls and throws up his hands. “Fine, but I'm cleaning that up and putting a plaster on it before I go. Go make your sodding coffee.”

Sherlock stands, forcing John to step back, and stalks into the kitchen to sort a pot of coffee. John retreats into the bathroom to get the First Aid kit. By the time Sherlock has his coffee in hand, John is kneeling beside Sherlock's chair. He sits in John's chair instead, because irritating John is one of his favorite pastimes. Sometimes John uses the Captain Watson voice, and it's marvelous.

Not today though. Today John just sighs and scoots over to his own chair, holding out a hand for Sherlock's injured arm. “I need to go out and get a few things,” he says as he cleans the tiny wounds and starts ripping open bandages, “I didn't want to leave her alone in case she wakes up. I need you to just,” John looks up at Sherlock, anticipating an objection, but Sherlock just smiles at him. “Just sit here until I get back from running errands.”

“Of course, John. It's not as if I could possibly have anything better to do than supervise my brother's unconscious mistress. What fun!”

Sherlock is sure he injected enough false levity into his verbiage to convey the appropriate amount of sarcasm, but John ignores it. “Thanks. You're all done here. Try not to suffer any abrasions while I'm out.”

John gathers the bandage wrappings and other rubbish from the floor and tosses them in the bin before grabbing Sherlock's keys and hurrying out the door. 

Sherlock decides to finish his coffee before going back into his room to clean up the arms. He really shouldn't have left them out of the fridge all night, but he hadn't intended to fall asleep. Fortunately, he'd finished his experiment and made notes, photographs, and sketches detailing the injury pattern made by ten different varieties of razor wire. It will be useful knowledge later at a crime scene, he is sure of it. He glances at the unconscious woman on the couch. It is time to get to know her better while John isn't around to shoo him away.

Forgetting about his coffee, Sherlock wanders over to the couch and sits down on the coffee table. On closer examination of her body proportions Sherlock concludes she is definitely black rather than from the subcontinent. He still can't see her face, but she is average height and weight and appears to be in her late twenties. _A tad young for Mycroft._ Her dirty fingernails are clipped short and her hands and lower arms are covered in scarring and mild discolorations. She has callouses on her finger tips and the pads between her thumb and forefingers, but the pattern doesn't match that of a musician. Whatever she does, she works with her hands. Her feet are likewise calloused and scarred, but it is highly unlikely she works with her feet. Not a fan of shoes then. There is a sliver of something shiny in the ball of her left foot. Interesting. Sherlock makes a note to dig it out later and examine it under his microscope. He moves back to her torso and sniffs. She smells of the bacterial breakdown of sebum, of surgical adhesive, and of institutional washing powder, but that last is the gown. He moves higher and smells her hair, which has been clipped very short. Nothing.

The body whimpers, and Sherlock leaps to his feet and back, sending himself vaulting over the coffee table onto his arse. “Idiot,” he curses at himself. He had forgotten momentarily that he wasn't examining a corpse.

Phone, he needs his phone. John will know what to do. He'd been taking photos with it last night, his room! Sherlock finds it on his bed and texts John.

_She whimpered. -SH_

_Is she awake?_

Sherlock goes back into the living room, but the woman hasn't moved and has stopped making sounds. Sherlock holds his good wrist over the hole in her bandages that is clearly her mouth. Her breath is even and rhythmic.

_No. -SH_

_Well, she probably will be soon. Don't be a prick, Sherlock. I'll be back as soon as I can, hopefully before then._

_I'm not a prick. -SH_

_Yes you are. You are a bloody awful inconsiderate prick, and if you hurt or distress my patient I will tie you up in that razor wire of yours and lock you in 221C until she is fully recovered._

Sherlock blinks at his phone. That was unexpected. He isn't sure how to reply, because the first response that springs to mind is _Yes, please_ and that is obviously insane even for him. Still, he decides to go with something close.

_Would you visit me? I'd get bored. -SH_

_No, and I'd play nothing but The Beatles through the door._

Sherlock hates The Beatles.

_John, that is beyond the pale. I'd think you, of all people, would have a healthier respect for the Geneva Conventions. -SH_

_Don't test me._

_You would get bored if I didn't. -SH_

_Charming, Sherlock. But seriously, don't upset my patient. I mean it._

The woman whimpers again, and moans, and coughs, which leads to a hoarse scream. She is weak and not yet fully conscious, but Sherlock imagines that coughing after an abdomnioplasty must be excruciating. He moves closer. Her breathing is faster now, but her eyes are still closed and now moving in saccades. REM? No, onset too sudden for REM. Indistinct susurrations escape from the bandages now, but Sherlock can't make them out.

_John, come home NOW. She is waking up. -SH_

Another whimper, louder, and now Sherlock can almost hear what she is saying. He lowers his face to hers to listen closer. His phone pings, John's reply to the text, but Sherlock ignores it because he is suddenly very interested in their guest.

She is reciting, without apparent pattern, a series of numbers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh good lord. I did not expect this to turn into such implied johnlock crack. My bad.


	4. Figure It Out, Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melissa wakes up. No questions are answered. John is terrible at flirting with Sherlock. Really suprisingly terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to megzor for beta-ing this chapter. If anyone else wants to volunteer to beta future chapters, let me know. I could also use a britpicker. Otherwise I'll just keep writing and seeing what happens. . .

John races up the stairs to 221B, cursing his stiff leg but taking the stairs two at a time regardless.

He hadn't started to worry until he was leaving the Tesco and realized that Sherlock hadn't responded to his last text. Sherlock _always_ responds to his texts when John is teasing him, just like he always ignores them whenever John asks him to pick up the shopping or something _boring_. It's a distinction he's only begun to appreciate since Sherlock's return, and John finds himself texting Sherlock more often. Sometimes, when he is out, or away from Sherlock for even small lengths of time, the grey depression starts creeping in again, like his mind forgets Sherlock is back and is trying to drag him back into that daily drudgery. When he absolutely cannot bear it, John vanquishes it with a text, usually something insulting, though he gets the best results with violent threats. He'd do it constantly if he could, but Sherlock would surely notice. 

This time, Sherlock is fine, obviously. He is perched on the coffee table in front of John's patient, posture terrible, curved spine, weight supported on the top of the one foot still on the floor in a way that would surely be uncomfortable if Sherlock paid any attention whatsoever to his body. But no, his attention is on whatever the patient is saying, which he is writing as fast as his hands can scribble in a moleskine. It must be quite the thing, because he hasn't noticed John at the door and his eyes burn with the fire he usually turns on his cases.

"Sherlock?"

"Shhhh!" Sherlock glares at him and waves him to silence.

John drops the shopping at the door and walks over to the couch, close enough to see that Sherlock's moleskine is filled with numbers.

Sherlock humphs. "Now look what you've done, John!"

John doesn't have the foggiest what Sherlock is talking about, but he needs to check his patient. "Move, Sherlock."

Sherlock glares at him again and snaps the moleskine closed, but he stalks over to the desk giving John plenty of room to check on the woman on the couch. John picks up her wrist to check her pulse and looks down at her face to find her staring at him with teary brown eyes. He smiles his most pleasant Doctor smile "Hello, did my flatmate frighten you?"

She snorts and her shoulders shake, but her laugh is cut off by a strangled scream trailing off into a low whisper of "fuuuuuck." Tears from her eyes wet her bandages. John quickly pops a syringe out of a sterile package, draws 4ccs of morphine into it, and pushes it into her IV. "Shhhhh," he says, keeping his hand on her pulse until it calms, "that should help. Try not to move."

"Ok," she whispers.

"Sherlock?" No answer. John turns to demand his attention, but Sherlock is at the desk pulling at his hair the way he does when he can't solve a problem. No help there then. John sighs. He turns back to his patient, Melissa, he reminds himself. "I'm going to get you some water. I'll be be right back."

John takes the opportunity to haul the shopping into the kitchen and pulls a box of straws out of one of the bags. He pops one into a half full glass of water from the tap and brings it back to the couch. "Careful now," he says as he holds it to her lips. She drinks cautiously, then more greedily. John hasn't overfilled the glass, but he doesn't want her to overdo it, so he sets it on the table.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like I've been run down by a lorry," she says, voice a little less harsh after the water, "What happened?"

"Um, well, I'm not entirely certain, but you've had a bit of surgery and been brought here to recover."

"And not a hospital?"

"No. Your. . .boss was quite insistent."

"Ah," she says, "hmmm." Her eyes flick away toward the ceiling. John picks up her pulse again. "I'm high. Can't think."

"I'll have to manage your pain quite agressively over the next few days at least. You really should be in a proper recovery bed." John frowns. She should. Mycroft better have a damn good explanation for this. "Are you still in pain?"

"If I say yes, are you going to keep me high all day?" Her voice is weak and soft, and wavers a bit toward the end of her question.

"Not in a manner of speaking, but yes." 

"Then no."

John sighs. "I am actually a doctor. I need you to be honest with me so I can take the best care of you."

"I know that," she says, "but I need to think."

"No," John shakes his head, "No you don't. You need to recover and heal. Thinking can wait."

"Maybe," she says, "How long have I been under?"

"I suspect about 72 hours, but I really don't know for sure," says John, "what's the last thing you remember?"

Her eyes snap back to his face. "72 hours! Jesus Christ! No, that's. . .that's a problem." Even glazed by painkillers her eyes search his. "He really didn't tell you anything, did he?"

"I got the impression there wasn't really time. He'll be by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she intoned.

"For what it's worth, he did seem very worried about you." John tries to be reassuring, but there is too much going on that he can't understand or explain, so he just has to guess. Sherlock could deduce, but John just has to guess.

"I'm sure," the woman sighs and closes her eyes. A few moments later they snap back open again in what looks like panic, "the brolly. Tell me he left the brolly!"

"Er, well, actually, yes he did. How did you know?"

"Can I have it please? Please?"

John shuffles over to the chair where they'd propped Mycroft's Umbrella. Sherlock is suddenly very interested again and raises an eyebrow at John as he passes with the brolly.

"Here," John says gently as he props it against the couch and places the curved handle into her hand. She seems content to let it lean there.

"I need a computer."

"You need to rest."

Her eyes narrow. "He told you not to give me one, didn't he?"

John can't help smirking. "Yes."

"Fine. How many days worth of papers do you have?"

"What?" 

"The news. I need to read the news. It. Is. Very. Important."

"Right. . .newspapers. I think we can do that." It takes them ages to dig through the mail and the adverts every week, it all ends up in a big pile in the kitchen. John manages to extract the papers and places them on the coffee table next to Melissa. "Here you go," he pauses and watches her eyes, "Melissa."

No reaction. "Thanks." She picks up a paper and stares at him. 

"Right, sorry. Listen, if you need anything I'll be right over there." John points at his chair. He swipes his laptop from Sherlock on the way to sit down. 

"I was using that!"

"And now you're not."

Sherlock frowns and rolls his eyes, but goes back to the numbers with his pen. A good 15 minutes pass where the only sounds in the flat are the rifling of papers, the scratching of Sherlock's pen, and the occasional curse followed by another crumpled piece of paper thrown to the floor. John checks his email and answers a few comments on the blog, but his attention snaps back to the room when the chair scrapes along the floor and Sherlock stalks across the room to the woman on the couch.

"Sherlock!" John shouts a warning.

"Oh don't get your pants in a twist, John, I'm not going to hurt her." He snatches the paper out of her hands though and leans over. "Why the umbrella?"

Melissa tightens her grip on the brolly. "Oh, I don't know," she says, "sentimental I suppose."

Sherlock is silent for a moment. John can't see his face, but knows exactly what it looks like when he lowers his voice and purrs "Nooooo. You're lying."

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Of sorts, yes."

"It was only a matter of time, I suppose. Well, have to pass the time somehow. Ask your questions, Mr. Holmes."

"How do you know my name?"

"Really? That's what you're starting with? Ask something less obvious."

Sherlock sighs, "Alright, clearly you work for my brother so you know who I am. What were those numbers?"

A small strangled sound from the couch. "God smiling hurts. I'm going to kill your brother."

"Could you?" Sherlock asks.

Silence. 

"Well?" Sherlock demands.

"Next question, please."

"What were those numbers? A code?"

"Figure it out, genius."

John chuckles. Sherlock whips his head around to glare at him. John just shrugs. Sherlock lets slip an exasperated sigh and turns back to Melissa.

"You're a cryptographer."

"Sure," she says, "the same way your brother holds a minor position in the british government."

Sherlock sits down on the coffee table and steeples his hands under his chin in that way he does. "Why would you tell me that? It seems ill advised."

A pause. "I suspect your brother brought me here because you two are the only people he could trust. If I'm going to work here for the next few weeks while I recover, you'd have deduced it anyway."

"You're lying again." 

"Am I?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You are asking questions you know a person in my position couldn't possibly answer, and you want to know if I'm lying?"

"I know you're lying. Stop stalling."

"Why? Got a hot date tonight?"

John chuckles again. He's starting to like this Melissa. He loves watching Sherlock get worked up, the way his usually pale cheeks flush with frustration and he starts waving his hands about. Oh.

"Mind the IV, Sherlock," he says.

"What?" Sherlock glares at him again.

"When you start waving your hands about, things tend to get smacked around a bit."

"I'm not. . ." Sherlock narrows his eyes as John starts chuckling again, "Stop it right now or _you're_ going to get smacked around a bit."

"You are welcome to try, but we both know I'd whip you."

"Oh for God's sake, grow up, John!" There go the hands, waving about just as predicted, and John laughs. Sherlock notices and sticks them under his armpits with a frown.

John can't tell if Sherlock enjoys being teased or not. On the one hand, it always seems to make him angry, but on the other, angry isn't bored and there might be something to that.

"Knock it off, please," says Melissa, "laughing hurts too much. Really."

Sherlock throws up his hands and steps over the coffee table. "I'm going out!"

A few moments later the downstairs door slams. Silence again. Melissa picks up her paper from the coffee table. John goes back to checking emails. He wouldn't mind answers to a few of Sherlock's questions, but patience may bear more fruit, and Mycroft will return tomorrow.


	5. One Mystery is Solved, Another Deepens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Melissa finally have their chat. Sherlock is legitimately trying not to be a prick, but fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Let's hear it again for HamsterMoon, my spectacular brit-picker who turned this looooong chapter around in under 24 hours!

Sherlock is not a morning person. Yes, he can be ready to dash out the door at a moment's notice, but only if there is something interesting to move him. Otherwise, he haunts the flat for days at a time in nothing but his dressing gown and pajamas. It is efficient. Why waste time and make extra washing?

John plans his days with military precision, rising at exactly the same time, taking his tea with the paper, personal maintenance and dressing, and it all takes him about thirty minutes. Sherlock could set his watch by it. 

So when Sherlock shuffles out of his room, yawning and scratching his head, John is already dressed and sitting in his chair sipping something through a straw that isn't his usual tea.

“John, what are you drinking?”

“It's a smoothie. There's extra in the kitchen if you'd like some. Strawberry Mango with a bit of protein powder in the mix.”

“It's pretty good,” Melissa's small voice pipes up from the sofa. 

Ah yes, her. Still here. Sherlock scowls at her. She just reminded him that he will have to suffer the company of his odious brother today. 

“I don't suppose you made any coffee?”

“Er, no, sorry,” John says, “you were out pretty late and I wasn't sure when you would be up.”

Sherlock sighs and stalks into the kitchen to make coffee. He'd been out late the previous evening because John and Melissa were being irritating. John's needling he could handle and was secretly starting to like. His flatmate's idea of wit is violent and macabre and Sherlock smiles every time John threatens to pull his tongue out his arse or something equally disgusting and ridiculous. Usually John only texts his threats, so it threw Sherlock off when John did so in person. He was smiling, but the small doctor's eyes said _I would, you know. I would put you on the ground so hard you never knew what hit you. Oh please do try to call what you think is a bluff. I want the chance to show you how very wrong you are, Sherlock Holmes._ That, more than anything, destroyed Sherlock's focus on questioning their guest, so he took himself for a long walk around London to clear his head. He failed. All he could think about on the walk was running around London with John on a case, and how he doesn't do nearly enough of that since his return from the dead. The utter destruction of Moriarty's network had also taken down most of the interesting criminals in the city and Lestrade can't reach out to Sherlock for anything less than a serial killer at the moment. Soon, someone brilliant will fill the power vacuum left by Moriarty, and he and John will have a real case again, something truly worth their time. Until then, he must try to content himself with smaller puzzles, like the puzzle of their guest.

Melissa's way of lying with the truth is vexing. Everything she said was true, but useless. Sherlock knows nothing more about her now than he did when Mycroft dumped her on his sofa. Clearly she is some kind of technology expert; that much was obvious from Mycroft's admonition to keep her away from technology. The numbers suggest cryptography or higher mathematics, but he was unable to find any kind of pattern in them and John took away his laptop before Sherlock could even attempt a decryption. He'll start on that this morning, after coffee. Ah, but the umbrella! Now there's a mystery! Melissa tucked it down her side against the back of the sofa so he wasn't able to examine it, but it is more than some sentimental security blanket, Sherlock is sure. The KGB once killed a dissident during the cold war using an umbrella modified to inject the subject with the poison ricin, but Sherlock doubts his brother goes about London poisoning people. There's something else. If he could just get his hands on that umbrella. And oh, John bought a new blender. Splendid. Sherlock broke the old one blending fascia; who knew it was so persistently stringy?

One cup of coffee, black, two sugars, travels with him out to the desk. He rifles through his notes from the previous evening but really needs a computer to make any more progress. John's computer is propped against his chair, where he sits drinking his smoothie with the paper, not using the laptop at all.

“John, do you mind?” Sherlock gestures toward the laptop and pumps his fingers in a give-it-to-me gesture. 

“Use your own.”

“I've already typed most of the numbers into yours. Would you stop being difficult and pass it here?”

John sucks down the last of his smoothie making an awful slurping sound as the straw runs out of liquid. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please?”

“Well, since you're being all polite about it,” John stands up and hands Sherlock the laptop, “I have to see to our patient anyway.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Your patient. I didn't want her here, remember?”

“Sherlock, she can hear you. Remember that talk we had about being a complete prick?” John frowns at him. Sherlock isn't certain, but John almost seems sad.

“Well, what? Should I apologize?” Sherlock rolls his eyes again.

“That might be good, yes.” John still looks sad.

Sherlock isn't sure why something so stupid would be making him sad, but it's not worth it. He turns to Melissa. “I am terribly sorry if I am being rude, please don't take it personally. It appears I have a habit of being something of a prick.”

Melissa smiles and seems to be about to reply, but her giggles turn into a grimace again and she gasps “Doc! A little help please!”

And there is John, good Doctor Watson, soothing her with kind words about rest and recovery, hands breaking open another sterile syringe and filling it with morphine, steady, quick, into the IV it goes. John holds her hand until the morphine hits her system and she relaxes. 

“Listen,” he says, “I need to get you up to change these bandages, and make sure you use the loo. I'm going to give you something else for nausea, the painkillers can sometimes have that side effect and you'll be moving around a bit, okay?”

“Right,” she says in her irritatingly small and high pitched voice, “I could do with a bit of a wash if that's possible.”

John has already dosed her with the zofran. “Well, you're not quite ready for a shower, but I think we can clean you up. I bought some dresses that look about your size so you don't have to meet your visitor in a hospital gown.”

“That's very thoughtful of you, Doctor Watson, thank you.”

“Sherlock? Can I use your. . .” John turns around and catches Sherlock staring. “What? What is it?”

“Oh, um, I just,” Sherlock shakes his head to clear it and offers his own lie of truth, “I was just observing your doctoring. It's not very often I get to see it when I'm not bleeding or poisoned.”

John chuckles. Sherlock flushes and his stomach flip flops again. “What?” he snaps at John, angry at himself, “What do you want?”

John's smile fades and he sighs. “Can I please use your room to change her bandages so I don't have to walk her up the stairs?”

“Just do it here,” Sherlock snaps, still cross that his stomach's gone queasy again. 

“I know you may not much care,” John frowns and turns on the bit-not-good face, “but some of us have a thing called modesty, Sherlock, so if you don't mind, a little privacy would be appreciated.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but realizes that if John and Melissa are in his room, he will have an opportunity to examine the umbrella. Instead he fakes a small smile and says “Yes, of course, how silly of me. Please use my room.”

Johns eyes narrow and Sherlock knows he isn't fooling his friend, but it doesn't matter. 

“Your brother assures me you two are not married, but you could have fooled me,” says Melissa quietly from the sofa, “do you always bicker like this? It must be impossible to get anything done.”

“You have no idea,” says John. Sherlock just sniffs disdainfully and opens the laptop. He doesn't really think the numbers are a lead, but he may as well finish typing them in just in case and he can't keep staring.

“All right,” says John to his patient, “are you ready to try getting up?”

“Ok,” she says.

Some shuffling, a grunt, a whimper, god can she stop doing that? It's annoying, like John has adopted a puppy that won't shut up. But Sherlock grits his teeth and pretends not to notice until he hears them shuffle down the hall on the other side of the kitchen, then he turns his eyes to the sofa. There it is, his brother's brolly.

Sherlock is up and it is in his hands without hesitation. He touches the fabric, which is the standard nylon, and then opens the umbrella in the living room. It pops open with a rather more solid click than Sherlock is used to in a brolly, and the entire thing is just a tad too heavy. Sherlock closes the umbrella again, puts a foot on the coffee table, and tries to bend the umbrella over his knee. It barely bends despite the application of considerable pressure. Ahhhh, not just an umbrella then, a passable self defense weapon, in a pinch. Polyamide shaft, probably. That can't be it, can it? No, surely not. Sherlock frowns and sits down on the coffee table with the umbrella across his knees. He fiddles with the tip and manages to screw it entirely off, revealing the tube of the inner shaft, which is sealed with a rubber gasket. Now that is interesting! He peels off the gasket, which covers a small metal disc over the opening of the central shaft. Sherlock picks at it with his fingernails and manages to unstick it, but it is attached to something inside the tube and he can't pull it off easily. He carries it to the window to get a better look, where, if he lifts it parallel to the tip of his nose he can just discern what looks like a bundle of wires anchoring the tiny disc. Even more interesting! Certainly not part of standard umbrella construction. Should he pull the disc off? No, better not yet. He replaces the tiny disc and the rubber gasket and screws on the tip again, then resumes his inspection at the other end. What appears to be a wooden handle is actually some sort of fiberglass. He runs his hands over it, and then his nails, looking for imperfections, ah, there! The very end of the curved handle is a separate piece that also screws off, this time revealing a chamber containing a lithium polymer battery that looks like a tiny foil packet. It's wires run to a snap in connector that snaps into its mate, whose wires run through a tiny hole and into the body of the rest of the umbrella. Sherlock sighs. There is no way to glean the purpose of the electronics without dismantling the whole thing or x-raying it at the lab, and he can do neither at the moment. 

Perhaps he can take it to the lab immediately. Does he care if she notices? Will it upset John for some reason? Sherlock needs to get dressed, but he's let John use his room for doctoring, damn! He'll certainly never get the umbrella out of the flat if he waits, so perhaps he should just travel in his pajamas, which are, strictly speaking, entirely legal street wear, if not terribly dignified. 

A high pitched shriek interrupts his burgeoning plan. Sherlock rivets his attention on his bedroom door, through which he can hear a muffled John saying “It's alright, just calm down. It's going to be alright.”

Melissa's voice is too soft, he can't hear her reply, only John's calming tenor, “I don't know, but Mycroft will be here soon to. . .”

“He bloody well better!” Melissa yells, and this time Sherlock hears her clearly. Her yelling is far less annoying than the tiny voice she's used since she arrived.

Curiosity gets the better of Sherlock and he replaces the umbrella in its exact place on the sofa and walks through the kitchen to investigate the disturbance in his room. He knocks, and since it's his own room anyway, cracks the door. “Is everything alright in there?”

“Fine, Sherlock, go away,” says John.

“No wait,” says Melissa, “come in.”

“Are you decent?” Sherlock asks.

“Do you care?” Melissa counters.

“Not really, no,” Sherlock walks in. Melissa is still wearing the hospital gown, though the bandages are off her face and he can see her clearly now for the first time.

Although some stitches are still visible over her eyes and on her chin, and she has dark yellow circles beneath both eyes – a consequence of the still swollen rhinoplasty – Sherlock concedes that his brother has not done too terrible a job, aesthetically speaking. Melissa shares many characteristics with those who exemplify the current societal standards of beauty: a delicate heart shaped face, large childlike brown eyes (thanks to the blepharoplasty, no doubt), and a small, slightly upturned nose that men like John find adorable.

“This,” she waves a palm in a circle in front of her face, “is not my face.”

“No, it wouldn't be,” says Sherlock.

“I made the obviously faulty assumption that I had been in some sort of accident and was perhaps disfigured in some way. I could have handled that. But this? What is this?” her voice rises almost to another shriek at the end. 

“Clearly you've had some cosmetic surgery. You don't need me to tell you that.” Really, what is she going on about? What does she want?

“Yes, but why? Deduce it. That is what you do, isn't it?”

John sits down on the bed and sighs. He fiddles with the new bandages in their sterile wrappers, tapping one against his knee, clearly displeased.

Sherlock graces him with an apologetic shrug. It's not his fault this woman is insisting on a conversation.

“Well?” says Melissa.

“Mycroft is protecting you from something. Changing your appearance so drastically will help you disappear. Your old life, whatever it was, is quite over, I'm afraid.” Sherlock lifts his chin, daring her to challenge his conclusion.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John glares at him and jumps to his feet to support Melissa, who has sagged against the wall. “Come on,” he tells her, half dragging her to sit beside him on the bed, “just sit down for a minute.”

“But John, it's true! Can you think of any other explanation?”

“No, Sherlock, but she's had quite a lot to adjust to in the past few days and you could have broken the news a little more gently. Christ.” John shakes his head and turns to Melissa. “Listen, I don't know why or what is going on, but everything is going to be okay. Mycroft obviously cares for you and isn't going to let anything happen to you. I am here and will help you work this all out. You're safe, okay?”

Sherlock seethes. She asked! He hadn't done anything wrong! Oh how he hates when John is angry at him without justification. He is not being a prick. He isn't!

“I think you may be wrong about that, Doctor Watson,” says Melissa in her quiet voice.

“I certainly hope he is not,” says another irritatingly soft voice from the doorway. Sherlock pivots to see that Mycroft has entered quietly and undetected, as he always does. He is once again wearing one of his well tailored three piece suits, a somber blue gray one today.

Sherlock stomps his foot and grabs his temples with both thumbs. “Get out. Everybody get out of my room!”

Nobody moves, though Melissa's eyes widen slightly at seeing Mycroft. Mycroft just quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head, and sighs. “This is hardly the time to be throwing a tantrum, little brother.”

“Oh shut up!” Sherlock snaps. He balls his hands into fists at his sides.

John rises from the bed and puffs out his chest. He pokes Sherlock in the chest hard with a finger. “Both of you get out, and let me finish tending to my patient before the both of you traumatize her further.”

“I'd rather like to. . .” Mycroft begins, but John is having none of it.

“Out!” he growls and takes step forward, forcing Sherlock to fall back toward his brother and the door, “before I literally throw you out!” 

“Er, yes,” says Sherlock, turning to Mycroft, “perhaps we'd better wait in the sitting room.” 

“Right, yes, of course,” Mycroft mutters, “apologies John, you know what is best, I am sure.”

Mycroft retreats to the sitting room and Sherlock follows. He catches his brother glancing at the umbrella on the sofa, but waits until Mycroft settles into Sherlock's own chair to broach the subject.

“Quite an interesting brolly you have there,” Sherlock perches on the arm of John's chair, giving him the height advantage over Mycroft, who, as usual, just gives him the small smile that means he knows what Sherlock is trying to do and does not particularly care. 

“How so?” Mycroft crosses his legs and interlaces his fingers on top of his knee. 

“Not many brollys run on batteries and come wired with electronics. I was going to take it to the lab later to examine it in more detail. Or you could just tell me and save me the trouble.”

Mycroft exhales and regards his brother appraisingly. “I would like to trust you with a great many things, Sherlock, but can I?”

“Probably, unless I am given a good reason otherwise. Loyalty is really your area, Mycroft, not mine. You know that so why are you asking?”

“Well, you have made,” he hesitates, “ _mistakes_.”

Sherlock clenches his teeth and briefly shuts his eyes. When he opens them he hopes they will burn his brother into ashes. “I have made mistakes? _I_ have made mistakes? _You_ are the one who gave that lunatic the ammunition he needed to burn me!” He is yelling now, waving his arms, while his brother sits there calmly as he always does, letting Sherlock work himself up. John was right, damn him.

“I am sorry for that, you know I am. I have done everything in my power to make it up to you.”

“Then why,” Sherlock snaps, “are you throwing this in my face right now?”

Mycroft sighs. “I want to trust you. I need to trust you. But your weaknesses are obvious and easily exploited.”

“John.”

“No,” Mycroft shakes his head and smiles just a bit, “not John. I am speaking of your tendency to show off, your pride. It was your downfall with both Ms. Adler and Moriarty, and it will be again if you don't learn to curtail it.”

“Ah,” Sherlock frowns. He wants to argue, but his brother is right. His own mind has not been idle on the subject, but that doesn't mean he wants to discuss it with Mycroft. He drops into John's chair and starts pulling at his hair.

“Well?” Mycroft raises both eyebrows and looks down his nose at his little brother.

“I don't know,” says Sherlock, to the floor, “I'm working on it.”

“You know, little brother, mistakes are how we grow. You needn't be so hard on yourself.”

“What?” Sherlock can't help gaping at his brother, the man who taught him, so very harshly, the consequences of sentiment, the importance of driving himself to perfection.

“Do you think this past year was not hard on everyone who cares about you, myself included? Death has a way of forcing one to re-examine one's priorities.”

“Mycroft, I don't know what you're going on about, but if you're looking for a reconciliation I'm not in the mood today. Tell me about the umbrella or don't, I'll find out myself, but I'm certainly not going to sit here and discuss your _feelings_ in exchange for intelligence.”

“I will,” says that soft voice from the kitchen. Melissa is dressed now in a black cotton tshirt dress that falls to just below her knees, but her face is still unbandaged. John follows her out of the kitchen, face tight, looking generally displeased.

Mycroft rises. “Q,” he says, “are you alright?”

Oh how charming, he has a nickname for her. Sherlock recognizes it from that movie John is always watching.

“No, no I am not alright. Why did you burn me, M? Why was this,” she gestures at her face again, “necessary?”

“Would you at least sit down, please?” John puts his hand on her back and gently pushes her toward the chairs. “Sherlock, get up.”

Sherlock isn't in the mood to argue, and he is intensely interested in this conversation, so he surrenders John's chair to Melissa and claims the desk chair, perching on it backwards with his arms crossed over the back. Melissa lowers herself into the vacated chair slowly, wincing only slightly, then leans into the back. John stands at parade rest behind her, protective as always.

Mycroft sits again, but leans forward with his elbows on his knees. He sighs. He looks at Sherlock again, then at John. “None of this can leave this room, do you gentlemen understand?”

“Yes, of course,” says John, John the soldier, John the vault of secrets. 

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock waves his hand and Mycroft frowns at him.

“So?” Melissa's face is carefully blank, but her eyes are jumping around the room.

Mycroft takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and exhales. “I didn't burn you. I was ordered to retire you.”

This is obviously not what she expected to hear. Her mask crumbles and her nostrils flare. Were he taking her pulse right now Sherlock is sure it would have just spiked. John's face is equally telling; he just looks angry.

“Why?” her voice trembles, “What did I do?”

“ _You_ didn't do anything.” Mycroft meets her eyes, apparently trying to communicate something without having to say it out loud. Sherlock hates it when people do that. Sometimes he can deduce it from context, but often he lacks enough context for anything less than a guess.  
Melissa is not processing information optimally, because it takes her an uncomfortably silent twelve seconds before she exhales “oh,” and then, “Oh! Oh god. You idiot. How did they find out?”

Sherlock smirks. He can count on one hand the number of times he's heard someone call his brother an idiot, and those who did always lived to regret it, himself included.

But this time Mycroft isn't angry. He sighs again, actually chagrined. “I don't know. I was careful. There is no way anyone could have known. You and I barely knew but there's no point beating around that bush now, is there?”

This is ridiculous. “Perhaps the cutesy nicknames were a clue?” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Sherlock,” John doesn't even have to finish.

“Fine, fine, yes I'll shut up,” Sherlock rolls his eyes again.

“Tell him about the brolly,” Melissa says.

Mycroft nods. “She built it for me shortly after I hired her. It blocks all wireless and radio signals, and emits a low frequency white noise. As long as I carry it, I am free to speak without worrying about most kinds of surveillance. She and I have never had a conversation without it. It is highly unlikely we were overheard, even if someone was trying, and even if they were, and heard something, it would not have been enough. We are very smart people whose lives depend on knowing how to be circumspect. Give me a little credit, Sherlock.”

That certainly explains why his brother had suddenly developed such an affinity for the umbrella that he was never seen without it. “Your current actions are hardly circumspect. I think they speak quite loudly,” Sherlock points out.

“Yes, they do,” Mycroft answers Sherlock, but he is looking at Melissa.

She swallows. “You retired me. I'm dead.” Not a question.

“And you must stay that way. I have arranged. . .”

“Stop.”

Mycroft stops.

“How many people?” she asks, her softness now dangerously still, rather than nervous and fluttery. 

“What?” Mycroft furrows his brow. Oh, this is good. Mycroft is stalling.

“How many people died so that you could fake my death?”

“It hardly matters, they were not. . .”

“Mycroft! Write them down. I need to know their names.”

“Why? You've never been concerned about casualties before now.” He is still stalling. This is fascinating. Sherlock is enjoying it immensely. 

She closes her eyes and when she opens them again she spears his brother with a very familiar look. It's the same bit-not-good-you-bloody-idiot look that John saves for Sherlock's more glaring gaffes. 

“Because,” she explains, “before now, nobody was dying for me. Because now, when I am lying on a strange sofa in the flat of two men who don't want me here, thinking about how my life is over, thinking about how one bottle of that morphine you provided could solve all my problems, I will recite four names in my head to remind myself that they died so I could live.”

Mycroft winces. “Please,” he pauses, looking for words, but seems to find none. His lips open and close a few times before he sinks back in the chair and holds his head in one delicate, freckled, hand.

“The names,” Melissa's mouth is a hard line now. 

“That was cruel,” Mycroft whispers.

“I know.”

“Is it true?”

“I've never lied to you. I'm not about to start now. Why are you stalling? Just write down the names.”

Mycroft pulls a pen and leather-bound notepad out of his jacket. He scribbles the names – Sherlock can't see them – and tears off the sheet. “You and I lie with the truth,” he says as he leans forward again to give her the names, “it makes me wonder how many lies we've told each other.”

Melissa snatches the paper out of his hand. “I've never lied to you with truth or with lies. Other people, but never you. Have you lied to me?”

“No,” Mycroft says immediately, and Sherlock knows he is lying. He's spent years learning his brother's tells and one of them is speed. When Mycroft tells the truth, he wants to tell it slowly, and with exposition. 

“Well, then,” says Melissa, mouth still reverting to that angry line when she pauses, “why did you do all of this? Why did you kill 4 people, put yourself at risk, and go to all this trouble just to save my life.”

“I'd think that would be obvious.”

“Pretend it isn't.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“You went to all the effort and risk of saving me, but telling me how you feel is too hard?”

Mycroft frowns and rubs his hands together before clasping them together. “Very well. I care about you. Deeply.” 

“Someone once told me that caring is not an advantage.” Now even Sherlock thinks she isn't being very kind. Since when does he care if someone is kind to his brother?

As if Mycroft can read his mind, he says, “Sherlock, do I appear to be at an advantage to you?” 

“Not at the moment, no.”

Mycroft tilts his head and looks at Melissa, as if to say “see?”

“Oh, I don't know, let's see,” she says, “I'm twenty-six years old and my career, my entire life, is over because my boss fancies me. That's kind of humiliating. I'm brilliant, really really brilliant, but I can still be cast aside like some bimbo secretary, just like that, tossed out with the trash like I'm worth nothing. And what happens to him? Oh, nothing. He just gets to keep on keeping on, same as always. Advantage: Mycroft Holmes, wouldn't you say?”

“Are you that angry at me?”

Melissa's mouth falls open and her eyes widen. “I am bloody furious with you!”

“I had no way of knowing any of this was going to happen,” Mycroft protests, but weakly, “but I am still very sorry. I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances, which, admittedly, are far from ideal.”

“It's your job to know what's going to happen. I don't entirely believe you, but I'm tired and you aren't going to give me any answers. So now what?”

“Now you rest and recover. When you're fully healed I'll take some photographs and provide you with a new identity,” Mycroft gestures to the doorway where he's left a large black laptop bag, “Now that you understand the situation, I've brought you some hardware, off the shelf, of course; you can't use your old hardware profile or it might be recognized. You can't contact anyone you knew. All aliases are burned. Be cautious of your behavior patterns and. . .”

“Alright I get it, Mycroft. I'm not an idiot. I know how this works.” 

“It will get better,” Mycroft says.

Melissa frowns and shakes her head. “You gave me a white girl's nose.”

“I certainly did not. Every feature was selected from a list of features typical on individuals of north African descent. I know it's an adjustment, but your new face is perfectly lovely.”

“What about my old face? Was that one lovely?”

Mycroft sighs and closes his eyes. “I was fond of it, yes.”

The first tears fall from Melissa's eyes and she raises her hands to rub them away, but John stops her. “I'm sorry, your stitches, you can't, I'll find some gauze or something. . .”

Mycroft passes her his pocket square. “Don't cry,” he says, “you will be well taken care of, I promise it.”

“Could you please just leave? Just go.” Her voice trembles, but she isn't openly sobbing, just quietly weeping. Sherlock is grateful; he hates it when women cry like that. It is either blatantly manipulative or a disgusting display of emotional lability. Melissa dabs at her eyes with the pocket square.

“Yes, alright,” Mycroft rises, “I'll go. Sherlock, would you walk me out?”

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. His brother must want something else. “Yes, fine,” he says and untangles his limbs from the chair then follows his brother onto the stairs. When they reach the landing, Sherlock says “I'm sorry that didn't go well for you,” and is rewarded by one raised eyebrow of surprise.

“I wouldn't think you'd care,” Mycroft snaps, retreating to a familiar moue.

“I'm not always a totally unfeeling idiot.”

“Yes you are.”

“I was trying to be kind so I'm not going to stand here and be insulted. What do you want, Mycroft?”

“I've brought you a case. It may not be up to your standards, but it will give me a reason to visit over the next few weeks. I have to be very careful. So do try to give it some attention. It is a real case.”

“What kind of case?” Sherlock could use a case, even one from his brother.

“Insider trading,” Mycroft smiles the way he does when preparing for Sherlock's objections.

Sherlock does not disappoint; he scowls. “Ugh. Insider trading? Give it to your accountants.”

“I have already done that. They got nowhere.”

“Fine, is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”


	6. Treason in the Living Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't doing so well, but he may have made a friend. He kind of wants to kill this new one too. Meanwhile, Melissa breaks it down for Sherlock, and John wonders if the paralells are really as obvious as she makes them seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are mostly exposition, weaving my story into some gaps that have always bugged me before getting on with the new plot (yes there is one I swear).
> 
> As always, thanks to the wonderful hamstermoon for britpicking! Why do brits work things out instead of figuring them out? I will never know, but I will keep making the mistake over and over, apparently.

John Watson has a temper, and he is a violent man. He knows without a doubt that he became a doctor to fix the sort of damage he did not want to allow himself to inflict on other human beings. And what did he do after serving his time in the RAMC? He got himself commissioned with the Fusiliers; he killed people; he taught other young men how to hurt and kill people; John Watson did some damage, and he was _good_ at it. Had he needed to prove that to himself then, before going back to fixing the damage? Well. He had just. Doctor Captain John Watson of the RAMC and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers knows exactly who he is, and he is intimately acquainted with the monster inside his own mind. That day Sally warned him away from Sherlock, she was warning the wrong man about the wrong monster.

Distantly, somewhere, a woman cries softly, but John can hardly hear her over the thundering rush of blood in his own ears. He is about to do some damage to anyone with the name of Holmes. If the revered Mummy Holmes herself were in his flat at this moment, he would slap her silly whilst demanding to know how she could possibly raise two such heartless bastards. John lets his rage hurt, lets it go tooling about inside his chest cavity, reaching cold tendrils into places he's shuttered and pulling other sorts of pain out of the darknesses there, and he loves it and he _hurts_. John Watson's rage is cold and precise and when he turns it on himself it hollows him out leaving massive empty caverns in his chest cavity. He is a masochist of the highest order. It isn't about sex, it is about purity and truth and being alive and a gentle touch on his wrist. . .wait, what?

“Doctor Watson!”

John drops his eyes to the small brown hand wrapped around his wrist, the matching hand trying to pry his clenched fingers off the top of the chair.

“No,” says Melissa, “No no no. You don't get to be furious on my behalf. You are not allowed.”

John has to say something. He can't just, god she was crying, she is still crying, what is he doing? So he swallows his rage (it hurts, oh it hurts so nicely) and falls back on apologizing. “I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.” He removes his hand from the back of the chair, not missing the deep imprints left by his fingers, and grabs her hand more gently as he kneels beside his chair. “You will be fine. I am here for you. You can cry if you need to, you can, anything, anything you need, just ask, no, don't even ask, I can take it.”

“John,” she says, the first time she has called him by his first name, “shut up.”

He can't help it, he laughs. “What now?”

“You'll work it out eventually, but it's not about me and Mycroft, so don't waste your time chasing that particular fox, particularly because that fox is mine.”

“Okay, you've lost me, but are you okay?” 

“I haven't lost you because you aren't stupid, and no I'm not bloody okay and neither are you and would you like to talk about it?”

“Isn't that what I'm supposed to say to you?” John points out.

“Okay,” Melissa says, “you tell me why your Holmes makes you want to rip the back off your chair, and I'll tell you why mine makes me want to cut off my own arm and bludgeon him with it while I bleed to death.”

John laughs again, even though nothing about the situation is really funny.

She draws a shaky breath and dabs at her eyes with the pocket square. “Every time I hear him say that caring is not an advantage, I want to hurt him to prove it isn't true, and isn't that the stupidest thing?”

“Alone is what I have,” quotes John, bitterly, “alone protects me.”

“Yes,” she sighs, “you understand. And now you know that I do too.”

“Thank you,” says John, and he means it, because it's too hard to explain, and he never could explain it to his therapist or to Sarah or even to Sherlock himself. He never could explain the way it feels to love someone who sees love as a weakness to be eradicated, to wonder if it's true when the ache in your own chest cripples you and leaves you a sobbing mess, to never be able to reach out to the one person who could set it all right, because that person has expressed his disdain for the very idea and his derision for the fools who desire it. It's the sort of helpless misery only someone who loves a Holmes could understand, and misery loves company. Or maybe it just needs a friend.

They don't really need to say anything else, so John and Melissa just sit there, holding hands, comforting each other with that simple act of human caring, and that's how Sherlock finds them when he returns.

“We have a case, John. A boring case, but it's a case,” He starts unzipping the bag Mycroft dropped at the door and eventually stands up with a file folder, “ah, here we are. It's an insider trading case that Mycroft's people can't prove and he wants an excuse to keep dropping by for obvious reasons so there's no particular hurry but I'm just going to take a look on the likely chance I can solve it at a glance, which I probably can because. . .what?” Sherlock finally notices John and Melissa's identical stares.

“Sherlock,” John shakes his head and sends his eyes toward the heavens, “don't you think we ought to talk about what just happened here?”

“Why? It's nothing to do with me.”

John sighs. 

“It's more to do with you than you think,” Melissa says, “have you ever known your brother to have simple motives?”

Sherlock frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Did it ever occur to you to wonder why a potential girlfriend is an unacceptable vulnerability, but a cherished younger brother is not?”

John can tell by the way Sherlock's eyes widen that it had not occurred to him.

“My relationship with my brother is hardly what you'd call close,” Sherlock shrugs, “I suspect it doesn't warrant the same sort of attention as one he voluntarily chooses.”

“But he does care for you. He would be upset if you died, was in fact very upset that you died.”

“One might question that, considering how willing he is to put me in harm's way in the first place.”

“Yes, it's almost as if he doesn't care, isn't it? And why would he care about his little brother, the self-destructive drug addict who needs constant rescuing. The immature show-off who tanked a major multi-national operation and almost cost him his career. Why, one might think you are more of a liability than anything else.” 

“Now just wait a second,” John begins, but he stops when Sherlock's mouth forms that surprised “O” usually reserved for brilliant insights in a case. John missed something. He turns back to Melissa and she is holding Sherlock's gaze, nodding.

“No,” says Sherlock, breathlessly.

“Yes,” says Melissa, firmly.

Sherlock sits down on the sofa. “So, Bond air, The Woman, Moriarty, all of it, he _knew_?” 

“He didn't just know, he played you all like a violin, a song of his own composition, every note perfectly plotted.”

“Are you telling me that Mycroft intentionally compromised an important anti-terrorist operation of his own design?” John asks, trying to follow along.

“'Bond air is go',” she says sarcastically, “really, would Mycroft make such a basic mistake as allowing you to overhear his phone conversations about classified operations if he wasn't doing it _on purpose_?”

“But for what purpose?” John feels like he almost has a grasp on it.

“Me,” says Sherlock, quietly, “he did it to keep me safe, to divert suspicion, to make his enemies think I am not only unimportant, but also more of a liability alive than I would be dead. My brother engineered my failure in those circumstances, and I danced to the beat of his infuriating drum like a well trained bear.” Sherlock fists his hands in his hair. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he thought he had failed, Sherlock. Even though all our calculations suggested he hadn't, you still jumped off a building and died,” Melissa covers John's hand, “sorry John.”

“It's alright,” John shrugs, willing to let this continue until he understands what's going on.

“Our calculations?” Sherlock repeats, “Ah, now I am beginning to see. Mycroft is my older brother, but you have been my Big Brother for. . .how long now?”

“Five years,” says Melissa, “and I was much much more than that. In fact, I could destroy your brother and many other men like him in half an hour.”

“How?” asks Sherlock, casually, like he doesn't care. Maybe, John thinks, he really doesn't.

“By doing absolutely nothing. Deadman's Switch. And I am, technically, dead.”

“Fascinating!” Sherlock whispers.

Melissa smiles, a smile with teeth.

“Wait a second,” John says again, “just, just wait one bloody second! Are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you about to commit treason in my living room? I can't let you do that. You know I can't let you do that.”

“Well, I think technically I committed treason three years ago when I created it, so you're hardly culpable, but your commitment to queen and country is charming.”

“Don't patronize me,” John yanks his hand away and stands up, using his liberated hand to point an accusing finger at Melissa. “I was in the army. Good people will die if you leak intelligence. People always die, and no one ever hears about it, but they die just the same.”

“Relax, John, I'm not going to let it happen. Can you please bring me that computer Mycroft brought me?”

John stomps over to the doorway and picks up the laptop bag, then back to the chair to unpack it for her. The laptop is an angular black behemoth of a thing decorated with a shiny alien on the case. John has never seen anything like it. He lays it carefully on the table beside the chair.

“Mycroft knew,” Sherlock says.

“Of course he knew. What good is a Deadman's Switch if nobody knows you've got one?”

“He took a risk, then, 'retiring' you.”

“It may seem that way to you, but Mycroft never takes risks. He analyzes, he calculates, he predicts, but he does not take risks. No, he did the one thing he knew would force me to disable my deadman's switch.”

“And what was that?” Sherlock has his hands steepled in front of his mouth, now.

John unwraps the cord from a power adapter and runs it across the room to the power strip under the window. 

Melissa sighs, sad again. “He dumped me in your living room.”

“So?” says Sherlock.

John pulls the side table with the laptop on it around in front of Melissa. She pops the lid open, hits the button, and waits for it to boot. The keyboard glows red, and so does the alien head on the case and the keyboard backlight.

“So, imagine the biggest case you'll ever be involved in, and really you should give this some thought because you're in it right now and you don't even know it, but, anyway, just imagine it. You've worked for years tracking down leads and making deductions, and you are so close to solving it you can taste it. Would you throw all of that away on a vengeful gesture that would wipe out all progress you've made?”

“No, I suppose I wouldn't,” Sherlock says.

“Would you care if you were dead?”

“No, I would be dead,” Sherlock scoffs at the stupid question.

“Can we stop talking about being dead!” John snaps. This morning has exhausted him, and his patience is gone. He wants to stop thinking about Sherlock being dead but the conversation keeps coming back round to it.

“I'm not dead. None of us are dead. And Mycroft, by dumping me on your sofa, has kept me in the front row. I cannot possibly tank all the progress we have made when I can still be a part of seeing it through, because, Sherlock, it has _everything_ to do with you and,” she grins, “you'll really like this part: neither Mycroft nor I know why.”

“How can you know something without knowing how you know it?” Sherlock asks.

“Hmm, good question. I'll answer it after I take care of that other thing.” Melissa starts typing on the flashy red-lit keyboard of her laptop. John hovers behind her with his arms crossed, watching, but all he sees is a black terminal full of white text, and her fingers pounding the keys with the kind of speed that makes her typing reminiscent of machine gun fire. After about five minutes, which Sherlock spends staring into space and John spends reassessing his patient's character, she closes the black terminal window and leans back. “There, all done. The empire is safe for another week.”

“No, not for a week. Disarm it for good,” John insists.

“No way. You'll just have to keep me alive.”

John growls, “I'm thinking about killing you right now.”

“Weren't you the one who wanted to stop talking about death?” 

“Alright alright, enough banter!” Sherlock says from the sofa, “Now explain.”

“This conversation isn't over,” John promises her.

“I know,” she replies with a sigh before turning back to Sherlock. “Are you familiar with the concept of a neural network?”

“If you mean a collection of nodes joined by weighted connections for the purposes of analysing patterns in a data set, then yes, I am familiar with the concept.”

“Oh very good, gold star for you. Well, Sherlock, you are a heavily weighted node in multiple networks I have been analyzing, and while it makes computational sense, it does not make a lot of practical sense, and yet your node is robust and has remained so despite all attempts to alter it.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hums through his steepled fingers, “Is this an illustrative metaphor, or do such networks actually exist?”

Melissa scoffs and rolls her eyes, “Of course they exist. The algorithms are rather more complicated than your explanation, but yes, yes, they very much exist, and I designed most of them. It's the most brilliant thing I've ever done and now it is all over.”

“I see that my brother has lost something far more valuable than a lover, today.”

“Indeed he has.”

“Were you his lover?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Well, what was it then? Snogging in the elevator? A shag in the copy room?”

“Sherlock! Don't be rude,” John thinks he should get tired of reminding Sherlock to mind his manners, but he keeps doing it anyway.

“Oh come on, you are clearly a lovely and intelligent woman, I just don't know what you could possibly see in my brother. He's fat, and a bit of a ponce, and married to his job. Surely, you could do better?”

Melissa frowns and closes her eyes. “When one is so very much smarter than everyone one knows, when one can see patterns and draw conclusions and manipulate people like trained animals, one starts to feel very lonely, and one might wonder if one is simply doomed to be alone, because trying to have relationships with people who cannot see or appreciate the same things is so woefully unfulfilling as to be not even worth the time. They only make one feel even more lonely than before. So when one meets a person who not only sees the same things, but sees them clearer and actually understands on a level to which one aspires, one might be forgiven for not caring a whit if that person is fat or poncy or,” her eyes open and she stares at Sherlock, “if he has a bit of a limp.”

“Just so,” says Sherlock, meeting John's eyes only briefly. John notes a flicker of panic there before they flit away to the window and he breathes, “very well, yes, I see.” 

Is that what he is to Sherlock? He can't even come close to understanding what goes on inside Sherlock's head. John is left behind by his flatmate's brilliance all the time, struggling to catch up like any regular moron. He's nothing special, not really. 

Is he?


	7. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are shit at relationship conversations, and John gets a bit of a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Hamstermoon for britpicking!

On the other side of the sitting room, John is talking with his patient in hushed tones, some angry, others softer. Eventually, he gets up to retrieve new bandages and replace some around her eyes and chin. 

But Sherlock doesn't notice any of it, because he's gone to his mind palace. He felt a flash of panic on seeing John's stricken face when Melissa called attention to his feelings for the man, and that brief flash lit the flames of paranoia in his mind. Just how long has Mycroft been pulling his strings? Suddenly, Sherlock finds himself questioning everything, all of his choices, everything he has become, everything he thought he wanted. 

He stalks the halls of his mind palace, peering into rooms, looking for anything out of place, anything that would suggest an intruder. He can't pull out a fingerprint kit and cover the place in iron filings, but he wishes he could. It's a flaw in the model. Briefly, he thinks that a network of weighted nodes would be better for this kind of analysis, but he doesn't have one of those. He suspects his brother does. What Sherlock can do is explore his own memories and try to work out if they are arranged the way he would have arranged them, or if something hints at another influence. His odds of success are not high, but he has to try.

The old wing where he keeps memories from his childhood and young adulthood is covered in dust. He doesn't come here often, doesn't need to, has packed up and deleted most of it. Some things he will keep forever, though. His footsteps throw up clouds of dust as he slowly opens the door to the dilapidated room that holds memories of his addictions. Most of it is similarly dusty, dirty; there is a pile of bloody sheets in one corner as if they'd been kicked angrily off the slim mattress on the floor. The floorboards are splintery and the entire room smells of mold and piss. It belongs in a tenement, not a palace, but this is where he slept, at that time, so it stays. 

In the center of the room, lit by one ray of sun filtering through a break in the boarded up windows, stands a short marble display pillar, and on display, under glass, is a perfectly clean, gleaming, syringe. It is the perfect hit that will live forever in every addict's mind, whether they build themselves a palace there or not. Sherlock cannot delete it, though he has tried. It calls to him sometimes, like a magnet, so he avoids this room as much as he is able. Today, however, he must look. This is how Mycroft found his way in, Sherlock is sure of it. His weakest moments are here, in this room, and he is kicking himself now for deleting as many of them as he could. He doesn't know how that sheet got bloody, but he has scars in places he doesn't talk about, and he can't remember how he got them. A cockroach scuttles across the pillow, drawing his attention to a few dark brown hairs still stuck there. He crouches, lifts the corner of the mattress disturbing three more roaches, and manages to retrieve his journal.

It's a black moleskine notebook, missing many pages due to deletions, but he thumbs through it, squinting in the dim light, searching for mentions of his brother. _Mycroft following me on CCTV again. . .came to ask me home for Christmas as if I'd actually go. . .brought me groceries the condescending prat. . .Tivvens mysteriously arrested will have to find new supplier. . .was it Mycroft again?_ Sherlock sighs and chucks the journal across the room into the bloody sheets. How is he supposed to know how far back it all goes? Did his brother put him here? Did his brother get him out? Sherlock always believed it was Lestrade, the detective that promised him he could help on cases if he got clean, but what if Mycroft placed Lestrade in his path? And if Mycroft put Lestrade in his path, what about. . .

Sherlock turns on his heel and runs out of that room, runs all the way across the grounds to John's room, bursts into the comfortable suite at full speed, and goes directly for the small room off the main to throw open John's footlocker. Sherlock pulls out John's military file, which he memorized and placed here, in this footlocker, whose contents are identical to the one at the end of John's real bed in 221B. He wanders back out into the bedroom and sits on the bed, a spartan double covered in a light blue duvet, just like John's actual bed. John's suite also includes a morgue, a surgery, and a firing range, but none of those will help today. The light in John's bedroom is bright; it is always sunny here, so Sherlock doesn't need to turn on a light to read the file. He flips through it, looking for evidence that John was targeted, that someone invalided him home for a purpose, but there is nothing. John was shot in a surprise attack, the source of the bullet never determined. Nerve damage and his limp got him sent home. But what if. . .

Sherlock's eyes snap open and a breathless “John!” falls from his lips. John is not there. Melissa types rapidly on her keyboard, still in the chair but now all bandaged up. “Where is he?” he demands.

“He said something about lying down for a while.”

Sherlock leaps up and takes the stairs to John's room three at a time. “John!” he opens the door and John is sitting up, swinging his legs over the opposite side of the bed, his back to Sherlock, slumped, one hand still on his face, the other nervously rubbing the leg of his jeans. Sherlock's gaze lands on the pillow, which is wet. John is upset. His purpose in barging in is suddenly diverted.

“John,” he says, softer, “did she say something that upset you? I will call Mycroft and. . .”

“No,” John says, “no, Sherlock, no, it isn't her. Can you please go? Whatever it is, it can wait, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock lies, because he needs to know needs to know needs to know now! “Was it me?”

John is silent. Sherlock's stomach reminds him just how _not good_ things are between him and John at the moment.

“Listen, John, you know my brother brings out the worst in me, and I had no idea that my behavior today was upsetting you this much. If you like I'll. . .”

“No,” John shakes his head, “no, no, no, Sherlock, it's not about today.”

“What then?” Sherlock steps around, carefully lowers himself to the bed beside his friend. “What did I do?”

John takes a deep breath and puts one hand back on his forehead for support as if his head is too heavy. Sherlock studies his profile, notices the dark circles under his eyes, knows John has been having nightmares almost every night again. The violin soothes him back to sleep, but can't head them off entirely. His cheeks are flushed, probably embarrassed to be caught crying, and though he has wiped away most evidence, his dark brown eyelashes are still wet and stuck together, and his cool blue eyes are still glassy. His right hand kneads at his jeans. 

Sherlock figures out what he did before John turns to him. His face is angry and sad, but his voice is cold and empty.

“You _died_ , Sherlock, you died.”

“I,” Sherlock's voice catches in his throat. He knew coming back couldn't be this easy. He knew there would be a price. He just didn't know John was the one who would continue to pay it. “I'm sorry. John, I am so sorry.”

“You made me watch,” John says, still in that cold, even, empty, tone. 

“I had to because you had to believe, you have to believe me when I say that I wanted to tell you everything but I couldn't because it was the best way and I couldn't lose you John, John, _please_ ,” Sherlock babbles and begs and doesn't care, because it's John, and if any of the millions of words in his head can set this right he will vomit forth all of them. 

“I know,” John says. Cold. Empty.

Sherlock can't take it. This isn't like John at all. He slips off the bed and kneels in front of his friend, forces himself to meet those sad and angry eyes. “John, losing you would have killed me,” he says.

“What do you suppose losing you did to me?”

“But we are both still here! Alive!”

“I know.”

“It's over. I'm here.” Sherlock places his hands over John's on top of his knees.

John's breath catches. “I know.”

“What can I do?”

“Sherlock, I know why you did what you did. I understand. Maybe there was another way, but you're a million times more brilliant than I am so I certainly wasn't going to find it for you even if you had shared your plans with me. I know all of that. I know it, but I can't,” John swallows and blinks rapidly, “I can't look at you without practically having a panic attack, and then when you are not there, I start to die again because you are gone. I literally cannot figure out how to live with you or without you. I should be over the moon that my friend is alive, but I am still so angry and depressed, like I've got into the habit and can't stop being that way.” John's voice shakes a little, but it is still much more blunted than usual. In defiant counterpoint, a tear escapes his frantic blinking and falls down his right cheek.

Sherlock resists the urge to wipe it away. _Sentiment?_ “John, why didn't you tell me?”

John shrugs. “Well, at first I felt just awful about hitting you. I'm so sorry about that, by the way.”

“It's fine, John. I knew it was one possible reaction upon my return. You have a temper. It hurt less than the first time.” Sherlock smirks as he remembers the tussle outside of The Woman's place, years ago now. 

“That was different, very different.”

“John, it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter.”

John yanks his hands away, dragging one across his eyes before fisting them both in the duvet beside him. “No, Sherlock, it really really does.”

“Why?”

“Because this time I actually wanted to hurt you.”

“Oh,” says Sherlock, “Okay. Yes, that's fine.”

“No, you idiot, it is not fine.”

“It is, John. You can hurt me as much as you need to. If that is what needs to happen to help you heal from all this, then yes, _hurt me_.”

“You would do that for me?”

 _I jumped off a building for you_ , Sherlock thinks, though he realizes it is exactly the wrong thing to say at the moment. “Yes. I would do anything for you, John, anything you need.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, Sherlock, why?” John's eyes narrow.

“Because I care about you. You are my best and only friend.”

“And what if I needed something else?”

“Anything, John, I mean it.” He's getting a little frustrated that John is dragging this out. Why can't he just say what he needs and be done with it so Sherlock can fix it?

“Then you should use that massive intellect of yours to deduce _why_ I want to hurt you.”

“I assume that you are angry, you have every right to be.”

“Wrong,” whispers John.

“You aren't angry at me?”

“Oh, I'm very angry at you, Sherlock, but that's not why I want to hurt you.”

Sherlock sits back on his heels and balls his own fists into his hair and thinks. John is angry, yes, he knew that, and sad, and not coping well with Sherlock's return. Sherlock kept him in the dark, tricked him, left him alone for too long. John's mind is very dark - it's one of the things Sherlock likes very much about John – but maybe he'd been left alone in it for too long. Sherlock underestimated the damage John would do to _himself_ in the wake of his fall. 

“Is it because you think if you hurt me, you can stop hurting yourself?”

“No,” says John, “hurting you is exactly like hurting myself. It feels the same. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Sherlock does. He should have realized it from the beginning of this conversation. He should have realized it three months ago. He should have forced John to have this conversation less than twenty four hours after his return from the dead, because they both knew, with crystal clarity, that moment in the pool, and then they ignored it for another year until that moment on the rooftop that left Sherlock himself sobbing, and then Sherlock died. And he spent the entire year he was away pining, yes he can admit it, _pining_ for John. Not for sex, not for affection, just for the feeling of _John_ near him. He should tell John that he loves him, but it feels wrong. John needs to know, somehow. He could kiss him. _Not gay_. Sherlock thinks of the way John has been blushing when Sherlock catches him staring. _Not gay_. It has been a very long time since Sherlock has kissed someone. He isn't even sure he wants to. This is horrible. Excruciating. _John_.

Sherlock sighs, “yes, John, I understand. I do. I'm not, you know, a machine?”

Johns eyes soften a bit. “Then explain it to me so I know that you do. Please? I've only just now worked it out myself.”

“Self-doubt is not a feeling I am comfortable with. I've been struggling with it since I came home. I will try, but I may need help.”

John just nods and waits.

“You find yourself wanting to hurt me to prove to yourself that I can feel something, because if you can hurt me, then I have given you the power to do so.” _I have, John, I have given you that power._

“Yes,” says John, “that's it exactly. And I'm sorry.”

“Don't be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock snaps unintentionally, but John actually smiles. Sherlock swallows before saying the next thing. He hopes he doesn't vomit before he is through. “You're in love with me, but the things I say about love and relationships have led you to believe that I will deride your feelings, and so you stay angry instead. It makes perfect sense.”

John's chest heaves and he bites his lips. His eyes fill with tears again and he just nods. 

Feelings are tiring, exhausting. Sherlock's is weary to the bone of this conversation, but he is stuck because John is stuck. 

“That is not how I wanted you to find out,” John says, “but thank you for saying it. I am too much of a mess, at the moment.” And though his tone is flatly honest, it sounds more like John now, warmer. 

“It's fine. It's hardly news,” Sherlock shrugs.

“You love me too, idiot.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.

They stare at each other awkwardly, John fighting back tears, Sherlock fighting down bile.

“Now what?” Sherlock asks, “Is that what you need?”

“I have no idea,” John says, “but yeah, it's a start. You aren't going to tell me I'm an idiot?”

“You're an idiot,” Sherlock says, but with an awkward smile. “There, was that so bad?”

“That's it? No lecture about the ridiculousness of human bonding habits or merciless analyses of my faulty neurochemistry?”

John knows him so well. Sherlock has been using exactly those sorts of arguments on himself, but they have been falling flatter than they did in the past, and he finds them less convincing. As uncomfortable as this is, it's a relief to have it out in the open, far preferable to pretending nothing is going on. 

“If I tried to tell you that your feelings are not real, or that they are foolish, I would have to first convince myself,” Sherlock confesses.

“You've tried?”

“Yes, but I no longer want to.”

“Okay.” 

They stare at each other awkwardly some more. Is the conversation over? What is Sherlock supposed to do when it is?

John rubs at his eyes. “God, we're shit at this.”

Sherlock grimaces, wrinkling the entire lower half of his face and chin. “Yes, quite.”

John sighs. “Okay, Sherlock, I am going to do something, and if you snap at me or laugh at me I will cry. I will cry all over you, big messy horrifying tears, snot and everything. You will hate it. Okay?”

Sherlock thinks that he might not hate it as much as he once would have, but he just nods. 

John leans forwards and puts one hand on the back of Sherlock's head. He doesn't pull, just holds, leans forward and plants a small kiss on Sherlock's forehead. “Sherlock Holmes, I love you.” 

Sherlock is not known for his patience, nor for his impulse control. All he has wanted since coming back is to _hold on_ to John after such a long absence, but he did not, until now, think such actions would be taken well, so he has stifled them. Embarrassment is not a thing he worries about, not like most people do. Sherlock Holmes does what he wants, and what he wants right now more than anything is to hold _John_ , which is how John Watson finds himself with a lap full of flatmate wrapping his long lanky arms around him tightly. He buries his head in Johns neck and breathes him in. He smells of aftershave and tea and wet wool. "John."

John laughs; Sherlock can feel his chest shaking, and he stiffens. “I didn't laugh at you,” he says, preparing to get up, steeling himself for the removal of _John_ , since he has obviously misread the situation.

“Nope, no you don't,” John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulls him more firmly into his lap, and kisses him on the forehead again. “I'm not laughing at you, just at, well, us. And uh, I did not forsee this, not at all, but it's good. It's good, Sherlock, okay?”

“John,” Sherlock says in response, not really seeing the need for any further exercise of vocabulary. 

John chuckles again and squeezes. Sherlock relaxes his head onto the scratchy wool covering John's good shoulder. Relief has left him light headed and weary. 

It takes him less than five seconds to fall asleep, surrounded by John.


	8. That's My Case!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melissa steals Sherlock's case. Sherlock demonstrates empathy while still managing to be a petulant child. John makes tea. I am terrible at these summaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to vivienne for betaing this chapter, and as always the lovely HamsterMoon for britpicking!

John lays on his back on top of his duvet wrapped in Sherlock, the position he fell in after Sherlock fell asleep in his lap. He tried to get up once, but Sherlock would not let him go. John is not tired enough to sleep, so he just tumbles the events of the last ten minutes in the cavern of his heart. Sherlock didn't mock him. Sherlock didn't criticize him. Sherlock instead literally leapt into his arms and promptly fell asleep, warm breath tickling John's neck. To say that went well is a colossal understatement, but now John has a new problem. What now?

John closes his eyes and tries to imagine seducing his flatmate, running a hand through his wild curls, gently pulling him in for a kiss, but he just makes himself chuckle and Sherlock's arms tighten a little around his shoulders. It doesn't seem right at all. Sherlock will never be one of his girlfriends, and John can't even bring himself to think about shagging the man. How is this supposed to go? Is he bisexual then? And oh, bugger, John really has to piss. 

He carefully pries Sherlock's hands off his body, but Sherlock protests by pulling him closer.

“Sherlock,” he says. 

Nothing.

“Sherlock!” he says, louder.

“Mmmph?” 

“I have to get up.”

“No,” mumbles his sleepy flatmate, not truly awake, “stay.”

“Sherlock, I have to piss. I will come back. Let me go.”

“You don't just have to use the loo,” Sherlock mumbles, yawning, “once you are up you will realize you have to check on your patient in the living room, and you will insist on a cup of tea, and then you will try to engage me in another horrible conversation about the nature of our relationship, which honestly hasn't even changed.”

“You say that, and yet here you are wrapped around me like a stubborn octopus, refusing to let me even visit the loo. That's quite new, Sherlock. What am I to make of that?”

Sherlock throws a long leg over John's legs, further pinning him to the bed. “You may conclude that your feelings for me are reciprocated, that I missed you to distraction while I was away, that I have no intention of ever letting you go again, and while I have not completely lost touch with the reality that I cannot accompany you everywhere, I think I shall be, for a while, rather clingy, because I see no reason to deny myself the physical reaffirmation of your continued presence in my life, which I have wanted for some time, but am now allowed to express this way.”

Of course Sherlock would be unfailingly honest about his feelings, no filter whatsoever. His words threaten to seep into the empty spaces hollowed out by John's anger, fill the dark caves with warm, honey-thick light. Sherlock's love is a binary fact, an unchangeable certainty, a solid premise on which to base all future decisions. Of course he isn't confused. John raises the hand not trapped under Sherlock and scrubs it nervously through his own hair. 

“Um,” says John, “should I start questioning my sexuality now?”

“Ugh, tedious,” Sherlock huffs against John's neck. It tickles.

“Sex is tedious?”

“In my experience, yes,” Sherlock sighs, “must we have this conversation?”

“God, I don't know, Sherlock, I'm just a little confused about where we go from here. Why aren't you? And I thought you were a virgin?”

“Technically accurate, I suppose, though perhaps misleading. And I am not confused because I have what I want at the moment, and if I want something different in the future I will tell you or ask for it or take it as appropriate and this seems like the logical way to be going on with anything of this sort and really, John, will you just relax and do the same? I am quite comfortable and your worrying is distracting.”

John huffs. Trust Sherlock to distill the basics of a mature adult relationship and figure it all out before John does. John has actually been in relationships before and should know how to proceed better than Sherlock, yet here he lies, wondering how to have a relationship with a person he already has one with. _Obviously_ , says Sherlock's voice, in his head.

John smiles. “You've got it all correct in one. How do you do that?”

“I've been reliably informed that I am brilliant.”

“Brilliant, but crap at relationships, Sherlock.”

“You only make that assumption because I've never chosen to have one. I look forward to impressing you with my competence in this field.”

John huffs again. He doesn't believe it for a second, but he says “I look forward to being impressed,” and ruffles Sherlock's hair with his free hand.

“See?” says Sherlock, “You wanted to touch my hair, and you did. Quite uncomplicated really. It was nice. You can do it again if you like.”

John chuckles and starts to card his fingers through Sherlock's curls. Sherlock sighs and snuggles closer, his nose actually on John's neck now, one soft, warm point of skin-to-skin contact that just feels, well, nice.

“Sherlock, I really do need the loo. I solemnly swear I will cuddle and pet you later, but we both have things to do. What were you barging in here for anyway? I know it wasn't to have a conversation about our feelings.”

“Oh.” Sherlock tenses, makes a sound that could be either a whimper or a whine, and sits up. His hair is wild from John's mussing, and his eyes narrow at John. “You made me forget for a moment!”

“Um, sorry?” says John, also sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“No, it was intriguing. Could be useful, but not now, this is important.” Sherlock drops himself next to John and pokes his injured shoulder with one long finger. It twinges. His eyes bore into John's skin. “John, who shot you?”

Where is this coming from all of a sudden? John knows Sherlock has seen his service file, but there is something desperate and terrified about his eyes all of a sudden and it forces John to remember for the first time in ages. “I don't know, Sherlock. I was trying to save a Private's life when it happened, he was nineteen. Nineteen, Sherlock, a bloody child!” And bleeding, bleeding out onto the rocks, shrapnel had torn his femoral, John trying desperately to clamp it with his fingers, knowing he wouldn't be able to let go until the kid was back in the field hospital, knowing that was never going to happen, and then he was thrown, thrown over the body of the kid, face first into the rocks of the outcropping they'd found for cover, his shoulder suddenly a mass of pressure and pain, his hands, useless, he turned his head and met the eyes of the dying boy for just a moment, and his young eyes mirrored the fear in his Captain's older ones, desperate and terrified, and John lost consciousness, certain he was a dead man.

“Shhhhh,” John isn't sure how long Sherlock's been whispering soft sounds, or how long he's been awkwardly hugging John, but that's what's happening when John snaps painfully back to the present - _notaflashbacknotaflashbacknotaflashback_ \- and shoves his flatmate away.

“I need to piss,” he announces, and practically sprints to the loo.

***************************

Sherlock was right, of course. A cup of tea sounds lovely, and John needs to check on Melissa, so he clomps down the stairs when he is finished in the loo. He finds Sherlock already in the sitting room, arguing with Melissa.

“But it's my case!”

“You don't want it anyway,” she says.

Sherlock bends over and snatches the file out of her lap. She rolls her eyes. “Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but Mycroft dumped me here, so you may as well use me.”

“Tell me how I met John. Was my brother responsible?”

“Oh,” she says softly, kindly, “No, Sherlock, no. Not John. But DI Lestrade. . .”

Sherlock explodes in a sudden tantrum. The folder goes flying into the kitchen, scattering papers in it's wake. The desk chair gets a solid kick when it is foolish enough to impede Sherlock's progress to the window, where he solidly thunks his head against the glass and grips the sill until his knuckles turn white. “I knew it!”

“Sherlock, what the hell?” John ignores the mess and goes to his side. 

“He's been playing me this entire time,” Sherlock growls through gritted teeth, “everything I've done, every choice I've made, even the ones deliberately calculated to be orthogonal, all planned and predicted by whatever game he is playing. I can't be certain of anything, John, everything must be called into question. It is infuriating not to be able to trust myself because I am revealed to be his puppet.”

Sherlock's agitation makes perfect sense, but John has only seen Sherlock spiral into self-doubt once and it isn't an experience he cares to repeat. “You're nobody's puppet, Sherlock Holmes. You are brilliant and a little mad and I love you and Mycroft did not make me do that.”

That wins him a small smile. “So that's what you want, is it?” Sherlock whispers to the window, for John's ears only.

“Sorry, what?”

“Declarations?”

“Ah, yes, I suppose. I've choked back an awful lot of them for a very long time. I think I want to not do it any longer.” John mentally kicks himself for the awkward phrasing of something that could have been rather romantic.

“Good. You want something. That's good.” Sherlock is barely paying attention, his head is still pressed against the window, and his fingers are still white on the sill. 

“Sherlock?”

“I'm sorry, John. I want to feel, I genuinely do, but I need to think. I have to analyze every choice I've made for the past five years, at least.”

“It's easy to be a victim of hindsight, but are there any decisions you would have made differently given the information you had at the time?” John may be a romantic, but he knows his role now: sounding board for Sherlock's mental maelstrom. It's comfortable. It's fine.

A warm breath fogs the window as Sherlock closes his eyes. “One, perhaps.”

John doesn't need to ask which one. Despite their new declarations of love, thinking about that day, Sherlock's blood on the pavement, still sends his heart into his throat, and John chokes on his next breath. 

“If you'd told John, Mycroft would have known,” Melissa says. God, John was so focused on Sherlock he forgot she was there.

Sherlock turns and glares at the small woman in John's chair. “He knew eventually anyway, surely he knew, when Moriarty's network was being dismantled piece by piece.”

“That's true, but it took us a while to figure that out. Your solution wasn't reflected in our models. It was entirely novel.”

“I don't want to play this game any longer,” Sherlock snaps, hands fisted at his sides.

“You live for this game, just like he does, it just vexes you that he's better at it.”

“I am not his pawn!” Sherlock thunders.

It's hard to read her facial expressions under the bandages, but John can see her roll her eyes. “Don't be so naïve.”

“If Sherlock is his pawn, then so are you,” John points out.

“Yes, and so are you, Doctor Watson. We all have our roles to play.” 

John frowns at her. He liked her just a few hours ago, now he isn't so sure. He has never had any illusions about how often he is manipulated by someone playing a larger game. The Army, Sherlock, Mycroft, John doesn't actually care. The only thing that matters to him is seething at the window, and his heart is the one thing he is certain wasn't manipulated. Or was it? _No._

“When does it end?” Sherlock asks, voice gone quiet suddenly, eyes suddenly open and on John's face. Oh god, had he seen John doubting?

“Never.” Melissa shrugs, “The world turns.”

Sherlock somehow oozes onto the sofa. One moment he is standing straight up in front of the window, and the next he slumps and magically ends up on the sofa. No matter how many times he sees it, John can't figure out how he does it. Sherlock presses his palms together beneath his chin in his thinking pose. “I keep missing patterns on the fringes. I delete the data, because it is irrelevant. My mind cannot function in a constant sea of noise, but it seems I've been filtering out the signal. Must change my filters. How? How to know?”

“Use me,” Melissa says again.

“I don't trust you!” Sherlock snaps, “You're his creature.”

“I have no doubt he is still pulling my strings, just as he is pulling yours, but I am no more his creature than you are, Sherlock Holmes! And I may not be as good at this game as he is, but I am rather better at it than you!”

“What,” Sherlock scoffs, “you and your maths?”

The eyeroll again. “The models are a blunt instrument, a sandbox. Manipulating people is a skill. Manipulating nations is an art. You'd be a fool not to utilize all the tools at your disposal.”

“Why do you want to help me?”

“Bored,” she mimics, everything from the intonation to the posh accent perfectly Sherlock, though she doesn't stick the baritone.

“That's frightening,” John says, pointing an accusatory finger at her, “You're frightening.” John managed to forget that she's been watching them, private moments, everything, for years. Something about her, so small and quiet and unassuming, everything screams _harmless_ and it is easy to forget. 

“You're just now getting that?”

“Don't forget, John, she's in love with my brother, which also makes her insane.”

“Probably true,” Melissa agrees, “So?”

“No,” says Sherlock.

“You don't believe me?”

“I believe you,” he says.

“But?”

“No. No, I will not play.” Sherlock turns away from the room, curls in on himself, and assumes his sofa pouting pose. 

“So that's it then, you're just going to lie around on the sofa?” she asks.

John knows better than to expect a response when Sherlock is having a sulk. “I'll make some tea, and some soup. You can probably handle solids now,” John shoves down his conflicted personal feelings about their guest and looks at her as a doctor. The morphine he gave her this morning has certainly worn off, but she seems content to remain in his chair, working on the new laptop from Mycroft. “You must still be in pain, I'll get you some more morphine.”

She waves him off. “No, busy, and you can take this out,” she taps at the IV, “I promise I will eat and hydrate, but it itches.”

“That should be alright. Let me just put the kettle on.”

John shuffles into the kitchen and does just that. He snags an antiseptic wipe, some gauze, and a bandage from the first aid kit before kneeling next to his patient again. “So,” he says, making conversation while he works, “what's got you so busy?”

“Oh, you know, looking at pictures of cats on the internet, that sort of thing.”

John secures the bandage over the hole in her arm. “Right, of course you are.”

“You don't think you like me anymore, now that I'm not a harmless damsel in distress.”

“No, I think that I don't like you any more now that you've reminded me you've been invading my privacy since I moved into this flat.”

“It was my job, at the time, and it kept you both safe and alive more times than you know.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“You told him.”

John glares at her. 

“It went well. I'm glad. Really.”

“People's hearts are not toys. Do not play with mine, or with his.”

“If I did, it worked out, right?”

“That's not the point, and you know it's not the point!” John shouts. Oh damn, she's getting under his skin too. He stands up and rubs his hands on his jeans. Then he walks away to make the tea. Sherlock probably won't touch it, but he makes a cup for him anyway. He pours the rest of the boiling water into a pot with a packet of soup mix. There's a guest and even if she's some kind of spy he should probably plan a healthier menu eventually, but he's out of patience at the moment so freeze dried soup will have to do.

John comes back into the sitting room with two cups of tea, puts one on the table in front of Melissa and the other on the coffee table behind his sulking flatmate. He debates retrieving his own cuppa and retreating to his room, not sure if he wants to continue a conversation that is almost certain to make him angrier than he already is, but he finds himself wanting to be where Sherlock is, even if Sherlock is ignoring him. He takes his tea and another mug full of soup out to the sitting room. There isn't room for another mug on the small table being used as a laptop desk, so he puts the soup on the actual desk and sits in Sherlock's chair. It feels strange, sitting here. He hasn't, not once in all the time Sherlock was gone. 

“Soup should be drinkable in about five minutes.” 

“Thanks, tea is good too,” Melissa holds up her mug, “cheers.” 

John frowns at her and sips his tea. 

“Oh come on. I didn't have anything to do with what happened half an hour ago. Lighten up.”

“You're lying. I don't know how, but somehow you're lying,” John has too much experience with people not to trust his gut, “and worse, I think you want me to know that you're lying, because if you didn't want me to know, I probably wouldn't know.”

Melissa smiles, the shark teeth again, but the effect is ruined by a wince. “John, I am having a very bad day, and no, I cannot stop doing what I do for even a second because it is in my bones and my blood and my brain, so maybe I did offer you a little nudge to do something you might not have done otherwise because it gives me a little thrill to have some control over these sorts of things the same way it gives him a thrill to solve his puzzles, but I assure you it's not part of some sort of conspiracy, and I'm not manipulating your feelings.”

“Hm,” hums John, noncommittally, “I suppose you are having a shit day, aren't you?”

“You have no idea.”

“Looking at cat pictures on the internet not cheering you up?”

She snorts. “Not actually what I'm doing, obviously.”

“Hmm,” says John, not in the mood for even these semantic games.

“I'm building a model of that case,” she gestures at the papers still scattered across the floor behind her, “I know why Mycroft cares so much about something as stupid as insider trading, but I don't know where the information originated, which is what he needs the most.”

“That's my case!” Sherlock practically sings into the back of the sofa.

“Come and get it off the floor then, you puerile twit!” she snaps back. 

John halts with his tea halfway to his mouth. Despite his general irritation, he fights a laugh. Melissa notices and rolls her eyes again. If John didn't know better, he'd swear she was a teenager with her attitude and her eye rolling. 

Sherlock rights himself on the sofa and glares at her. “Excuse me?” he says, obviously offended.

“You heard me you overgrown man-child. I've been here two days and already you're throwing tantrums and sulking on the sofa? You couldn't pretend to be an adult for forty eight hours?”

This time, John chokes on his tea and gets it up his nose. His spluttering is quite undignified.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. “You're rather blasé about offending the people who hold your life in their hands.”

“What life? I'm dead, remember?”

“Dead people don't investigate cases.”

“Dead people do whatever the fuck they want.”

Sherlock doesn't respond, but his hands come back up into thinking pose and he braces his elbows on his knees as he stares at her quizzically and taps his pointer fingers against his lips. She stares back defiantly from under her bandages.

Then Sherlock does something unexpected: he shrugs off his dressing gown, leaving only his ratty grey t-shirt. His left arm falls out to his side while his right hand traces his vein from wrist to elbow, and John sees them. They drive the breath from his lungs.

“I was dead once,” Sherlock says slowly, caressing his track marks, “and I did whatever the fuck I wanted too. Whatever the fuck I wanted, except the one thing I wanted most.”

“And what was that?” Melissa asks.

“I wanted to come home,” Sherlock says, quietly, looking at John, who can only sit in Sherlock's chair with his mouth hanging open and a boot on his heart.

“That's touching,” says Melissa, “but why is it relevant?”

“Because,” says Sherlock, gracefully pulling his dressing gown back on, “you want the same, but if you can't have it, you'll self-destruct instead. I'd mock the tendency, but, well,” Sherlock splays his hands in supplication.

This, this is new. This is not a Sherlock John has seen before, and he doesn't know what to think. Sherlock has always been insightful, even about the feelings of others, but empathy, the real kind, not faked, is not a tool John can remember seeing him use, not once, not ever. 

“I don't care about my apartment,” Melissa says.

“And I didn't miss 221B,” Sherlock responds.

Melissa looks away, pretends to see something on her computer screen, blinks a lot.

“He would not have put himself at risk this way if he didn't care for you a great deal.”

“That's not the problem,” Melissa says, back to her small voice.

“I know.”

“Then shut up. What are you trying to do?”

“Convince you not to do something stupid and get yourself killed, for real this time.”

“Consider me convinced. Now, do you want to talk about this case or not?”

Sherlock's eyes flicker to the papers on the floor. “Very well. Why does this case matter to my brother?”

“Twenty-two men, including Edward Fitzpatrick, the man in your file, made over half a billion dollars each on a single NASDAQ trade, an insignificant manufacturing start-up outside of Shanghai that never should have been listed publicly in the first place, much less valued at the current share prices.”

“So someone is manipulating the market,” Sherlock says.

“Ya think?”

“Happens all the time,” Sherlock shrugs, “why does it matter this time?”

“Because one Major-General Cedric Allen, the current commander of Her Majesty's Armed Forces on Cyprus, also made ten million dollars on the same trade.”

“Cyprus?” Sherlock scowls, “who cares about Cyprus?”

John finds his voice. He wants to say. . .actually he has no idea what he wants to say, so he settles into his old comfortable role of explaining. “They're in the midst of a serious financial crisis, major public blowback, a complete mess for the EU, Sherlock.”

“So?”

“I don't think this is actually about Cyprus. We use Cyprus as a staging ground for our operations in the Middle-East. I think this is about Syria.”

“Yeah, the Fusiliers are based out of Cyprus, but we don't have any official operations in Syria,” John points out.

The eye rolling again. “Of course not.”

“Who cares?” thunders Sherlock, “So what!” International politics always did make him irritable. Some things never change.

“So somebody,” Melissa says, “Has just purchased an officer of the crown who has significant influence over every operation in the Middle-East.”

“Fire him, reassign him, whatever. Problem solved.” Sherlock waves his hand and flops back on the sofa.

Melissa shakes her head. “Oh Sherlock, you really have no idea how this game is played, do you?”

“It's not a game!” Sherlock roars as he leaps off the sofa, “And I am not playing!” He stomps to his room and loudly slams the door.

John sets his tea on the side table. “He's right, these are people's lives we're talking about. It's not a game.”

“Semantics matter,” Melissa says, “and it's important to know that to the people manipulating these events, it very much _is_ a game.”

“We call those sorts of people sociopaths.”

“Yes,” says Melissa quietly, “I suppose we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: This is a fictional universe. As such, all characters are fictional, especially those mentioned in relation to military operations. The shit that is about to go down in this story, in terms of international events, is all fictional. If I write anything straight up *wrong* please let me know, but please allow me my liberties in terms of dramatizing international politics for the Sherlock universe ;)


	9. Damsel in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade texts like a teenager. Sherlock's mistakes come home to haunt him. As usual I am rubbish at summarys. Lots of angst in this chapter, but it's short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to HamsterMoon for britpicking!

Sherlock can pace only four steps in his small room before he must turn around and pace back, but he paces. He's not entirely ignorant of the situation in Syria, but Mycroft doesn't want him in Syria anyway. Mycroft wants him to track the source of the insider information, hoping going down that rabbit hole will lead back to a different puppeteer which he can then eviscerate. It is not entirely unlike what Sherlock just finished doing to Moriarty's network, following thread after thread of the spider's web, unraveling it from the center outward until it could not hold and collapsed, only backwards, seeking the center from the edges this time. _give him a puzzle and watch him dance. . ._

No. Unacceptable. Sherlock banishes his brother's voice from his brain, but his brain replaces it with John's face, frightened for barely a moment, in his moment of doubt. Stop. Stop this nonsense. Need to think. Not about that.

Sherlock doesn't want this case. The puzzle intrigues him, but he is tired. He learned his lesson well after Moriarty, and the bloom is off the rose, so to speak.

But he is bored. Already the itch of static clamors at the edges of his synapses. He needs a case or he will go mad and undoubtedly take it out on John and perhaps ruin everything again. Certain truths may be spoken, finally, but they were not secret truths, not really, and very little has changed. John is still hurt, angry, and may be suffering from clinical depression. Sherlock has cured him once and he can do it again, but he needs _a case_. 

He plucks his phone off the dresser and texts Lestrade.

_I need a case -SH_

No reply is immediate, so he texts again.

_BORED -SH_

Still no reply. Lestrade had better be up to his bollocks in corpses.

_Stop ignoring me. Passive aggressive doesn't suit you. -SH_

Finally, a reply!

_jesus, can a bloke use the loo?_

_CASE. NOW. -SH_

_i gave u one 2 days ago be grateful_

_That scene in Sussex? A botched TWOC and accidental homicide. BORING. I need a real case. -SH_

_out of luck mate. ur brother is the only reason i still have a job right now. cant risk it_

_This is important._ Sherlock hesitates, but plunges ahead: _John and I need this. -SH_

_he getting punchy again?_

Sherlock can practically hear the DI snickering over his terrible pun, and is not amused.

_Quite the opposite. I'm fairly certain his cock will be up my arse by the end of the week if you don't GIVE ME A CASE. -SH_

_then id be doing u a favor not to give u a case mate_

Damn. Lestrade always has been strangely immune to his sarcasm. New tactic.

_Greg, please. -SH_

_r u high?_

Sherlock stops and rubs his temples. Oh for. . .

_I am not high. As previously mentioned, I am BORED. -SH_

_srsly sherlock I know things are hard right now but I am worried about u_

_Then give me a case. -SH_

_i cant right now_

_Being back is harder than I thought. I need things to go back to the way they were. I need cases. -SH_

_everything goes to shit and you can still only go forward not back. u need to talk to him_

_You're not my therapist. -SH_

_no but im ur friend_

_If you were my friend, you would do the one thing that would help me the most and GIVE ME A CASE. -SH_

_dammit sherlock laura left me during the scandal and if I start involving u again they are going to demote me or sack me and I will b fucked for maintenance and child support payments and youll be fucked for cases_

_You cleared my name. I don't understand why I am still being frozen out. -SH_

_weve been over this sherlcok_

Sherlock frowns. They have. Four times. Apparently, despite his success at bringing down one of the world's most dangerous organised crime syndicates, it is still too risky to continue to work so closely with someone they can not predict or control. Lestrade hadn't even tried to be gentle in his explanation: _Frankly, Sherlock, they think you're a little bit insane, and they're probably right. I'm used to it, but you gotta look at it from their perspective._

Sherlock sighs. 

_Fine. -SH_

_njoy the anal sex_

Sherlock tamps down an urge to shatter the phone against the wall and simply tosses it on the bed instead. Lestrade won't be any help, and Sherlock isn't in the mood for his cheeky nonsense. He continues pacing but only makes it a few steps before he grabs his phone again.

_I can't do this again. I've only just got back. -SH_

_Do it with John this time. -MH_

Oh. Trust his brother to get right to the heart of the matter.

_I can't do that to him. -SH_

_He needs it just like you do. You're intentionally being a fool. -MH_

This time, the phone hits the wall at speed. It thunks to the floor unharmed and the black cover pops off. He would own the only shatterproof iphone in London. How terribly unsatisfying.

There is a gentle knock at his door, and John's voice saying “Sherlock?” before he opens the door without permission. Whatever he sees on Sherlock's face causes his own to settle into a mask of sympathy. “You okay?”

“Fine, John. How is your patient?” John is far too good at reading him. Best to change the subject.

“Infuriating. Possibly a sociopath. Like an actual sociopath, not like you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You have it exactly backwards. That woman is the exact opposite of a sociopath, emotionally unstable in a clinical sense. Mycroft has obviously used the work to keep her more self destructive tendencies at bay, but now that the work is gone her true colors will emerge.”

“Do you think he knows?”

“Of course he knows,” Sherlock snaps, “He knows, she knows, he knows she knows, she knows he knows she knows, ad infinitum. It's hard to have a healthy relationship with someone you know must manipulate you for your own good. He probably found her in a sorry state, recognized her potential and. . .” Sherlock trails off as the parallels become glaringly obvious. That perfect hit calls to him from the dirty room in his mind palace. He has deleted his entire stay at the family estate, his weeks of undoubtedly miserable withdrawal, even the first case he worked with Lestrade. His first clear memory after his removal from that dirty room is Mycroft pressing Ms. Hudson's number into his palm, and suggesting he might be able to afford to live in London, for the work of course, if he sought a flatmate. Another case with Lestrade. Then another. A late night at Bart's, fatigue, rambling at Mike Stamford. And then, like a miracle, a flatmate, and Sherlock was saved. _A damsel in distress. . ._

_No._

“Sherlock?” John steps toward him. Sherlock steps back.

 _the promise of love_ : A mad chase through London with the hero who would later save his life, followed by dinner, complete with candlelight. Sherlock wasn't bored once.

“Oh God,” Sherlock whispers.

 _the pain of loss_ : A teary eyed phone call from the ledge of a building. John, at his tombstone, begging him not to be dead.

John holds out his palms, a soothing gesture. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Textbook,” says Sherlock.

“What?”

 _the joy of redemption_ : His smile when he said “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” The offered case, a complex, brilliant, and dangerous case for them to work together, his redemption.

“I am your damsel in distress, John.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You're hardly in need of rescuing, at least at the moment.” 

John takes another step forward and Sherlock takes another step back. His knees hit the bed and buckle, so he sits on the bed and the maelstrom in his head comes crashing home. _this is textbook it isn't real it was never real it was always the perfect formula even if Mycroft didn't plan it though he almost certainly did and this new case will bring them closer than before textbook it's all textbook it's just a story like the story of Sir Boast-a-lot who turned out to be a liar after all because he was the biggest idiot of them all._

“Sherlock, god, Sherlock, you're hyperventilating. Sherlock, breathe.” John sits on the bed beside him.

 _Breathing is boring except when it's painful like when the breath was driven from his lungs and a knife twisted in the heart he didn't know he had before he saw John strapped into a vest of explosives and he was suddenly very ordinary and frightened and Moriarty was proved right about everything but he continued to fool himself so well that when Moriarty called him ordinary he had actually been hurt by his disappointment because Sir Boast-a-lot stood above all the other knights until the singular moment when he looked down at John through blurry eyes and realized he had put himself on that high ledge and he didn't want to be there any longer and the only way down was to fall and it was going to_ hurt.

“Talk to me, Sherlock, come on, just talk to me.”

_It is Sir Boast-a-lot who is so offended by his brothers meddling by the very idea that he can be manipulated and controlled by someone else because loss of control is terrifying to the point that he would rather climb right back up on that ledge above the ordinary people where he can breathe and he can see and he can think instead of stumbling around in the confusing fog of war that plagues the ordinary yes he needs needs the perspective of distance but he can't go back to that ledge and so the dirty room and the syringe is calling to him but so is John._

“Sherlock! Sherlock bloody Holmes answer me!”

“I'm an idiot, John,” Sherlock gasps.

“You're a genius,” John grabs his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly.

Sherlock puts his head in his hands and sobs.


	10. The Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a panic attack, John is the best, there are cuddles but it's weird. Angst and Fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my wonderful britpicker Hamstermoon!
> 
> I also now have a beta! She is going to read this and tell me what she wants to be called on Ao3 and then I'll credit her properly like.

Once. Sherlock sobs once. Then he lifts shaking hands to the side of his head and digs long fingers into his temples so hard it must hurt. 

“John,” he says through clenched teeth, “I need you to leave now.”

John has seen this before, once, shortly after the Irene Adler incident. That time, Sherlock had paced the sitting room becoming more and more distressed before he reached some kind of breaking point and suddenly ran to his room and slammed the door. He refused to come out for two days, and then only because John threatened to break down the door carrying tea and toast. This time, John is already in Sherlock's room, and he knows he has precious little time to figure out exactly the right thing to say to get Sherlock to let him stay. No fumbling for the right words this time.

John puts his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and squeezes a little. Sherlock's hands flutter away from his temples and then immediately snap back, pressing harder. 

“Just so you know, this thing between us, whatever you want to call it, means you will always have a shoulder to cry on if you want one. I want to stay, but if you still want me to go, I will go.”

“God, John, Go!” Sherlock snaps; he is even more imperious than usual when he is in distress.

“Okay.” John stands up, impulsively runs his hand over Sherlock's curls, and shuffles to the door. There is no reason to feel hurt. Sherlock is Sherlock and he doesn't like anyone to witness his weaknesses, especially John. Everything will be fine in a day or two when he calms down. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_Sir Boast-a-lot would send John away._

“Wait,” Sherlock whispers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If he breathes, he might shatter the fragile miracle that just happened. John forces a neutral expression onto his face and turns around. After all, Sherlock might just want him to hand him his mobile or something. 

Sherlock looks at him. His hands shake, unshed tears pool on his lower lashes, and his mouth opens but no words come out, only harsh, rapid, breaths. John suspects Sherlock has deleted the vocabulary to ask for comfort, and has no idea what to say. 

John returns to sitting on the bed beside Sherlock, sits so close that their hips press together, and wraps his arms around the other man. One hand pries Sherlock's fingers from his temples, while the other guides his head to John's shoulder. Sherlock shakes, but lets John move him. Once John has Sherlock close, he lays his palm over Sherlock's and sneaks a touch at his pulse. Yep, definitely fast, but now is not the time to tell Sherlock he's having a panic attack. Considering how Sherlock cut him last time John saw him have a panic attack after the business with the Hound, he is a bit nervous about this conversation, honestly.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“John,” Sherlock gasps, “he was. . .they were. . .I didn't. . .you!”

“Okay, just breathe and explain in a bit, then.”

John feels Sherlock's muscles coil beneath the skin and he could stop him, pull him back down to the bed, but he lets him spring up and start pacing again. Now the tears fall as Sherlock starts ranting though deep gasping breaths.

“John don't you see Moriarty was. . .right and my. . .brother was right and Irene. . .was right they were all right about me because I. . .was too proud and I thought I could. . .but I can't alone. . .so ordinary this panic attack. . .ordinary yes I felt you take my pulse. . .ordinary the way I need you to stay. . .”

“I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snaps, but then, he closes his eyes and groans. “I'm sorry. I don't know how to do this, John.”

“Do what?”

“Be. . .different.”

“Why would you want to be different? You're remarkable! Sherlock, never change, please. I don't want you to. I like you the way you are. I don't know what you think all this means, but it's not like that and that isn't what I want.” John has never meant anything more in his life, except perhaps in the moment he confessed his love to Sherlock. He knows saying this isn't going to stop what is obviously a panic attack, but he has to say it anyway and let Sherlock work the rest of it out himself.

Sherlock grabs his temples again and stops pacing. “It's not about you. It's not about you!”

“Oh, okay.” John is patient.

Sherlock falls to his knees in front of John and drops his forehead to John's knee. He continues to breathe heavily and John watches his angular shoulder blades heave up and down under his robe. It isn't until John runs a tentative hand through his curls again that Sherlock starts sobbing in earnest. 

“Okay. Okay, shhhhh, everything is going to be okay, Sherlock.” John can't stop himself from making comforting sounds, even though he knows Sherlock probably thinks it's stupid. He continues to comb his fingers through Sherlock's hair until he feels a warm wetness seep through his jeans at the knees. John isn't really sure what to do because he's never seen Sherlock like this before, so he just lets Sherlock cry himself out until his sobs subside into gasping breaths.

“Shit,” he mumbles into John's knees.

“Breathe, you idiot.”

“Breathing's boring,” again, the mumbling.

John swats him on the back of the head. “Welcome back. Want to talk about it?”

Sherlock rocks back on his heels. His eyes are red and tears still brim over, though only occasionally. “Yes.”

John waits, but nothing else is forthcoming.

“Do you want to tell me what you think everyone but me was right about?”

Sherlock covers his eyes with one large hand, as if to hide from the new sob that escapes. “No,” he whispers, but then, “Shit. Yes.”

“It can wait a bit, if you'd rather sleep it off first,” John suggests.

“I'd have nightmares, if I slept,” Sherlock confesses. He wipes his eyes, drops the hand covering his face, and turns vulnerable eyes on John. He still looks lost and sad and frightened. “Is this what it's like for you, every night?”

“Something like this, yeah,” John admits, not entirely comfortable with this line of questioning.

“My god.”

“Are you changing the subject?”

“Yes.” Sherlock grimaces and wipes away more tears that just won't stop falling.

“You know there's nothing you can say that will change the way I feel, right?”

Silence.

“Sherlock?”

“There is a reason for leaving I haven't told you yet, John,” Sherlock casts his eyes at the ceiling and takes another deep breath. He forgets to let it out.

“Breathe, Sherlock,” John reminds him. 

The breath comes out as a sob. “Shit,” says Sherlock again, wiping away tears again.

“Crying makes you awfully sweary,” John observes.

“Shut up.”

“Then start talking.”

Sherlock breathes and rocks. John waits. One minute. Two. Three. Four.

“I needed to know I could do it without you,” Sherlock says quietly, with a sniffle.

“But, why?” 

“Because I'm an idiot.”

John sighs and waits, because that's not really an answer.

“I hadn't worked it out yet, how I got to that ledge. I hadn't worked out that they were all playing what I thought was a strength but turned out to be a weakness. The mental gifts that let me be what I am also set me apart from others like you. I made a mistake and thought the cause was the effect and vice versa. My entire life I have allowed people to keep me at arms length, believing I was protecting myself, but it never once occurred to me they were doing the same thing. I isolated myself and called it strength, and I pushed you away and called you a weakness. It was all backwards, and I don't know how to fix it, or how to change. People say things and I still think 'No, wrong! Idiots! I am so much better than you, why can't you see?' They say things that are unkind and it cannot touch me because I still see them as insects scurrying far beneath me, so high am I on that ledge. Since I returned, I have thrown myself off it constantly, trying to bring myself closer to you, only to get frightened and climb back up again so I can breathe, so I can see clearly, so I can feel safe. I,” and now his voice cracks, “I think this thing between us may require more courage than I actually have.”

“Bollocks!” John interrupts. He can't listen to any more of this, he really can't, or he is going to have his own panic attack. He knows it's just a metaphor. In a twisted way the entire affair was a metaphor, and Sherlock is somehow caught up in a story that should be over. “You're one of the bravest people I know. Sometimes I wish you were a little less brave, to be honest.”

“Oh John, you don't know. I am brave with this transport, this body. It means next to nothing to me. I am a _coward_ with my heart, and they played me, one choice after another, knowing I would never choose to respond to a threat by making myself more vulnerable because, honestly, how could that ever be the right response? It doesn't make any sense, except it was, somehow. Moriarty pointed a smoking gun at me, and I should have bared my heart. It would have cut him off at the knees. It was the one thing none of them planned for. The great game only played if I stood above it all alone as they did, or in my brother's case, still does. So now I don't know how to conduct myself at all. The idea of leveling myself to morons like Anderson is repellent, yet it is setting myself above them all that brought me low at last. I _am_ Sir Boast-a-lot. Moriarty was right. My brother was right. They knew me better than I knew myself, and they took everything I valued about myself and made me hate it.”

John doesn't know what to say. The idea of Sherlock hating himself is too discordant to process, yet also unbearably sad.

“They played you too, John.”

John has to stop this. “I know, Sherlock.”

“You do?” Sherlock's mouth opens in surprise and he looks at John again.

“I don't care. However they played me, whatever stories they used to unconsciously manipulate me, it was all still _real_ , and my feelings for you are still real regardless of where they came from,” John leans forward, closer to Sherlock, another inch and he could kiss the man, and the thought feels strange and alien in his mind. His feelings are real, though, and he focuses on that. “Our story matters, Sherlock, it matters to a lot of people. It doesn't matter who wrote it, it's still ours.”

“I am obviously having difficulty being as calm about it as you seem to be.”

Yes, obviously. John changes the subject slightly. “You said that you left to chase after Moriarty's network alone because you needed to know if you could do it without me. It seems that you could.”

Sherlock pushes up the sleeve of his dressing gown, baring the track marks again. John forces himself not to look away when the boot descends on his heart again. Could Sherlock not have just given him a simple answer this time? Just this once? 

“No, John, I couldn't. It isn't finished. You're safe, but Mycroft is probably still cleaning up the loose ends. It. . .I. . .he pulled me out and sent me home when it became clear my addiction was becoming unmanageable again, as if such a thing can ever be manageable in the first place. I am not the person you think I am. I don't have healthy coping habits under stress. I never have. You were lucky to meet me in an upswing. I was clean. I had just found the work. And then I found you and I started to think we could be that way forever. I came back here thinking everything could still be that way, but it can't, and I am slowly losing my mind and I'm afraid of what I'll do.”

“To me?”

“To myself.”

A sliver of suspicion works itself into John's awareness like a sharp piece of glass. Oh God. “Sherlock,” he says carefully, “are you still using?”

Sherlock doesn't answer, just uses his free hand to lift the sleeve of the other arm. There, among old scars and track marks, is a tiny red dot.

John can't speak.

“Yes,” says Sherlock, “now you understand.”

“I think I actually do,” John manages to say, “Idiot that I am.” 

“You're not an idiot, John.”

John never really thought Sherlock was a hero. He thought very highly of him, of course, as people tend to do of those they love, but he recognized Sherlock's flaws and accepted them. Yet, despite fleeting moments of real fear and vulnerability like the one in the pool or on the roof, John hadn't really put Sherlock's experience of the world in perspective. He'd known about Sherlock's past as an addict, but he never bothered to wonder why, simply accepted Sherlock's explanation that the cocaine helped him think, when what he really meant was _it helped me not to feel_. It only made sense that a man who is hypersensitive to everything else would also have a hypersensitive heart. 

“I think I know why you hate your brother so much,” John finally says.

“What?” Sherlock doesn't follow John's change of topic and John doesn't expect him to.

“It didn't hurt him as much, did it? He doesn't feel as deeply as you do. The world does not wound him as badly, and it didn't, even before he grew up and set himself apart like you did. He learned it from you, and then he used it against you because you could never be as good at it as he is.”

Sherlock wraps his arms around his knees and narrows his eyes at John. “You are really, really, not an idiot. I'm not sure I could have elucidated that.”

“I will try not to hurt you, Sherlock. Really, it's the last thing I want to do even when I'm angry at you. But I'm not perfect. I will screw up. I need to know that you aren't going to find solace in a needle. We need to work out another way.”

“Haven't you been listening? I don't have another way.”

“Have you been listening? You said it yourself. When I hurt you, you have to tell me. You can't retreat back to that bloody ledge and put me at a distance. And if someone else does, you have to come to me too.”

Sherlock pales and his eyes widen. “John, you have no idea how many stupid little things hurt me if I let them.”

“Try me.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath before rattling off a long list: “It hurts me when you talk about the weather with Ms. Hudson but don't talk to me and it hurts me when you don't ask if I want tea and it hurts me when you go down to the pub with Lestrade and leave me all alone even though I don't want to go and it hurts me when someone else makes you laugh and it hurts me when you snap at me for leaving body parts in the fridge and around the flat and it hurts me when I say something brilliant at a crime scene and you don't notice and I swear John I could go on for an hour and not even come up for air.”

“That sounds awful,” says John, “I had no idea.”

“Well now you have. But I don't expect you to stop doing those things just because I spectacularly fail at having coping skills.”

“No,” John agrees, “and I won't, but I do have a suggestion for an experiment.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes again, suspicious. 

“I think you should try being a mess for a while. Don't allow yourself to try to cope at all. Just,” John shrugs, “be whatever you are in any given moment.”

Sherlock sighs. “And you just assume that I will be this mess in any given moment.”

“Isn't that what you are trying to tell me?”

“I suppose so. But that sounds awful. Why would you want that?”

John can't really answer that question, because the answer is that he thinks Sherlock is stronger than he gives himself credit for, and he thinks curiosity and boredom and all the other things that motivate Sherlock will play a much bigger part in his day to day life than being an open wound all the time, but if he says that now Sherlock won't believe him. He settles for a half truth.

“You need to figure out who you are without being Sir Boast-a-lot, right?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment and rocks back and forth a bit, obviously thinking. “Is this a thing you want? Why would anyone want this?”

“Want what, you?”

“This me. At times I become a casualty of my own mind. I am not proud of these moments.”

“Sherlock, I always saw this you. I let you think I didn't because you seemed to prefer it that way.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock continues rocking back and forth, hugging his knees tightly to his chest, “Do you think I need saving, John? Do my moments of vulnerability draw you to me because they make you feel useful and needed?”

“A bit, maybe.” John doesn't know what Sherlock is getting at, but he is pretty sure he isn't going to like it.

“Typical.” Sherlock sighs and buries his head in his knees.

John can almost see Sherlock's mind putting itself back in order, his defense mechanisms settling around him like armor. 

“You're doing it again,” says John.

“What are you talking about, John?” Sherlock's voice is muffled in his knees.

“Being Sir Boast-a-lot and pretending not to need people, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks up and pierces John with his odd, color changing eyes. At the moment they are a bit green, and still red around the edges. “Tell me I'm wrong, John. Tell me being my white knight is a healthy basis for a relationship.”

Now that Sherlock has calmed a bit, John lets himself think and react. His mental state at the moment is mostly a long string of cursewords, some directed at Moriarty and Mycroft, others directed at Sherlock. Sherlock, who left to prove to himself he didn't need John, and returned because it turned out he did. So what does that make John? A crutch? A security blanket? Sherlock had called himself a damsel in distress, which John supposes makes him Sherlock's white knight; considering how many times John has saved Sherlock's reckless arse, it's not an inaccurate description of their relationship, but is that the story they want to be writing? 

“You're wrong, Sherlock. Not about healthy relationships, but you've got the _story_ wrong. This entire thing with your brother and Moriarty, you keep letting them tell you what your story is.”

“The story doesn't matter. Fiction isn't real, and a story cannot control reality, only describe it.”

John gapes at him. “I don't think I've ever heard anything so stupid come out of your mouth.”

Sherlock stills. “Excuse me?”

“I can't believe I'm about to say this,” John says, slowly, carefully, “but you really need to pay more attention to your brother. He has mastered controlling the narrative. Surely you understand how powerful that is?”

John expects Sherlock to get angry, but instead he drops his mouth to his knees and hums thoughtfully. His brow furrows and the eyes peeking out over his knees fixate on John like he's a piece of evidence in a case. They rove up and down his body, searching, though John doesn't know what for.

“I need to think,” Sherlock finally says.

And just like that, the usual Sherlock is back, and John isn't prepared for it. “Um, should I go? Or do you want to talk it through some more?”

“I don't know. You did promise. . .” Sherlock trails off and averts his eyes. The floor, apparently, is suddenly fascinating.

“After all of that, _now_ you can't tell me what's on your mind? Really?”

“I thought you'd remember, and I wouldn't have to,” Sherlock says flatly.

John racks his brain for something he promised Sherlock. Knowing the genius, he could have promised it months ago and he'd never remember. A lot had happened today: Mycroft's visit, Melissa's revelations, their awkward admissions, falling into bed with suddenly clingy octopus Sherlock. . .oh! That's it. Oh god, he had promised Sherlock another cuddle, is that what this is about?

John swallows his awkwardness and wonders why this isn't as weird to Sherlock as it is to him. It's going to be embarrassing if he's got this wrong. “Do you need a cuddle, Sherlock?”

“If it's okay, I think, yes,” Sherlock nods decisively, as if he's made a very important breakthrough.

“Right,” John says, “of course it's okay. I did promise, after all.”

For a moment they simply stare at each other. John rubs his hands nervously on his jeans. The flood of sympathy that hits him when he feels the wet patches on his knees makes it a little easier. He pushes himself fully onto the bed and leans against the headboard. He gestures with his hand. “C'mere.”

Sherlock scrambles onto the bed next to John, but hesitates. “How should I arrange myself?”

John shrugs. “However you like, I suppose.” He prepares himself to be wrapped up by a clingy octopus again, but Sherlock just tentatively lays his head on John's good shoulder.

“You think this is awkward,” Sherlock says, “I may have been too enthusiastic earlier. We don't have to. . .”

“Stop,” John says, pulling Sherlock closer, “come on, do the octopus thing if you want to. You're right, it's weird, but it was nice before. It's just going to take me a little time to get used to it.”

“I am not a cephalopod,” Sherlock protests.

“The way you wrapped me up in those long limbs of yours and wouldn't let go, I think I'm going to start calling you Sherlocktopus. How do you feel about pet names?”

“Not funny, John,” but John feels his lips twitch against his shoulder.

They lay there for another minute before Sherlock sighs and throws an arm and a leg across John, effectively pinning him to the bed. John chuckles. 

“This is an idiotic conversation,” Sherlock says, “but I only have _four_ limbs, so if anything, I'm a quadropus.”

“That's not actually a word.”

“Neither is Sherlocktopus. If you insist on creating ridiculous portmanteaus then I insist you be accurate with your Latin roots.”

“I don't speak Latin, Sherlock.” 

“Obviously.”

“You're right, this conversation is idiotic.”

“If you ever call me that in front of another human being, the Yard will never find your body, John.”

John laughs, and Sherlock joins him. The mutual vibration of their chuckles seems to shake out some of the remaining space between them and they both relax a little. Cuddling is new, but their pedantic banter is the same as it always was and they'd both probably needed the reminder.

John begins to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls again. Eventually, Sherlock closes his eyes and hums into his shoulder and John decides it is one of his favorite things about this new relationship with Sherlock. After a few minutes, he asks “How goes the thinking?”

“Rubbish,” Sherlock sighs.

“Shall I stop then?”

Sherlock smiles and snugs the arm over John's chest. “No.”

John smiles and accepts his small victory with grace.

After a few more minutes of gentle petting, Sherlock speaks again.

“John,” he murmurs, “tell me a story.”


End file.
